My grandmothers had babies, a toddler,
watching their menfolk go to the unknown.
No texts, emails, phone calls,
only fear of a dreaded telegram.
Their neighbours, other women, old-folk
huddled together for comfort,
like their husbands, brothers, cousins,
battling the heat, wet or cold.
Their men returned; their children grew,
only to give my grandmothers
more heartache, seeing sons at war,
daughters labouring at home.
We are one hundred years along
the road since Armistice;
now I am a mother, grandmother
still praying, praying,
praying hard for Peace
Poet in Residence – Chester Cathedral, for Armistice Day, 11 November 2018