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Poem	My boy's come back; he's here at last; He came home on a special train. My longing and my ache are past, My only son is back again. He's home with music, flags and flowers; With peace and joy my heart's abrim; He got here in the morning hours With half the town to welcome him. To hush my grief, night after night, How I have digged my pillow deep, And it would be the morning light Before I sobbed myself to sleep. And how I used to stare and stare Across the harbour's yeasty foam, Thinking he's fighting far out there . . . But now with bells my boy's come home. There's Mrs. Burke, she has her Ted, But less the sight of his two eyes; And Mrs. Smith - you know her Fred - They took his legs off at the thighs. How can these women happy be, For all their bravery of talk, One with a son who cannot see, One with a boy who'll never walk. I should be happier than they; My lad came back without a scar, And all the folks are proud they say, To greet their hero of the war. So in the gentle eventide I'll give God thanks my Bert's come home. . . . As peacefully I sit beside His tiny mound of new-turned loam.
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