This lunch time I remembered in a letter home, Wilfred Owen wrote to his mother including an apology for the condition of his letter due to the mud in the trenches, which got everywhere.

A letter in many ways is you; a representation when you cannot be there and a reflection of the person you are. How important it must have been to keep that white sheet as clean as possible before sending it home from the trenches. A simple image, I thought I would write on.

A Letter Home

Clods hang like leeches and
scrape paint from a deflated tin bowler hat.
Mud is the old dish re-served
dashed with rations, water and sodden boots.
Water pools, rank and oily
lodges fat footprints to suck and pull
leg, cloth and single barrel arms.
No moths circle the lamp, to faint for a moon
and in the thick gravy gloom
eyes squint, strain against the weight as
grubby fingers write on a precious sheet of white;
apologise for the tattered edges and soily stains
before they kiss their love.

Wilfred Owen's poem Dulce Et Decourm Est stuck with me from the moment I read it. Although it has it's technicalities it does not distract from the connect ability Wilfred undoubtedly wanted to achieve and the picture he wanted to paint in words.

Wondering what to type at lunchtime, I thought I would doodle on the image (or some of them) that Wilfred give me from reading Dulce Et Decourm, although I haven't re-read it prior to the doodle.