My grandpa said he learned to dance
in a village in Northern France.
That's where he met my dear grand-mere,
in 1910 at the village fair.
My father was born in 1913,
at the time my grand-mere was just eighteen.
The letter arrived the day before
grandpa left to go to war.
Urging him to take great care
and how she missed him when he's not there.
And his sons eyes are blue
and he looks just like you
and I'll try to send food in a day or two.
Now the letter lies in a field of mud,
holed by a bullet and smeared with blood.
Near Bezonvaux in Northern France,
where my grandpa learned to dance.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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