When It Is Too Late

When it is too late When I was twelve I lived at a farm milking and looking after cows, but a war had ended and the impression it made stayed with me and nothing could change the imprint of my mind I lived a good life herding sheep and milking cows and my best friend was a little horse called Dolly and she loved me, she never had a foal, and in her mind, I was a good substitute mind, I spent hours brushing her and trimming her horse mane Idyllic, wasn't it? Worth writing poetry about the bumble bees and hens finding worms in the dark soil Despite this, I missed my old life the fear the uncertainty of sitting in a bomb shelter, the one under the schoolhouse listening to the worried voices of the adults, waking up going back to our flat where my mother's brother had secured a loaf and margarine and the happiness the meager offering brought, it was all too late I had been conditioned to a life where tomorrow is not an extension of today. I left the secure life. From a life of turmoil to the risk of violence by the mob in the knowledge that my mother loved me, for this, a son can endure the hard time.