This poem was written by Dawn Turner about the loss of her son. Dawn kindly gave me her permission to share it on FLOW.
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My world stopped on 22 August.
The date is etched into my skin like a burn.
Six weeks have passed —
or perhaps it’s still that single, endless day
where your last breath caught in my throat
and has stayed there ever since.
You were thirty-five,
a veteran,
a soldier who fought wars abroad
and a quieter, crueller one at home.
You carried your medals in a drawer,
but the scars of service were always visible to me,
your mother,
the one who knew when your silence
was heavier than your words.
They called you a hero when you wore the uniform.
They forgot you when you hung it up.
The system saluted you once
and then looked away.
You fought for them,
but when it was their turn to fight for you
they were nowhere to be found.
Six weeks gone.
Six weeks of arms aching to hold you,
six weeks of fury wrapped around my ribs
so tight I can barely breathe.
Grief walks with me,
not as a guest but as an uninvited lodger
sleeping in your empty chair,
drinking from your mug,
haunting the mirror with my eyes.
They tell me time will soften it.
But time cannot soften injustice.
Time cannot smooth the rough edge
of a son lost to a war he should never have fought alone.
My boy.
If love alone could have saved you,
I would have built a fortress
higher than the walls of Parliament,
I would have held back the darkness
with nothing but my hands and my heartbeat.
But love does not mend systems.
Love does not resurrect.
Love cannot reach across the cold earth.
And so here I stand —
raw, bleeding,
a mother without her son —
but not without her purpose.
It is my turn now.
My turn to pick up the banner you laid down.
My turn to become your warrior.
I will fight for justice.
I will not let you die in vain.
Your story will not fade into polite whispers.
It will roar in every room
until those who failed you must listen,
until the walls shake with the truth
of what was lost.
I will speak your name into every dawn
until it becomes a warning and a promise.
I will carve your memory
into every petition, every speech, every plea,
until they understand that one veteran lost like this
is one too many.
Six weeks gone.
And still I feel your presence
like the echo of a drum in my chest.
You are in my marrow now,
stitched into every breath I take.
And as long as I am breathing,
your story is not over.
Because my world stopped on 22 August.
But my fight began.
And in this fight,
I am not just your mother —
I am your witness, your voice,
your soldier now.
And I swear before the silence and the stars
I will not rest until your name means change.
I will not rest until your life means more
than the system that failed you.
I will not rest
until the justice you were denied
has been dragged into the light.
You may be gone, my son,
but you are not lost.
You are my heartbeat.
You are my cause.
You are my vow.
And I will not let you die in vain.
Thank you for letting us publish your poem Dawn.
Your poem is both raw and powerful.
The part that will stay with me is this…
“You carried your medals in a drawer, but the scars of service were always visible to me, your mother, the one who knew when your silence was heavier than your words.”
All too often, I read about the silence, the darkness that no one sees, and sadly, these are rarely dealt with by the organisations that should be FAR more proactive in veteran mental health.