The Father loved him,
Bound himself to him – patiently waiting for a text to arrive
To tell him he was safe and warm
After days of being out on manoeuvres in the arid deserts of Afghanistan.

Father was waiting on a tiny island in the middle of the sea
Unable to protect his boy
From the daily attacks – from people who did not know and love his son
As he did.

The radio played constantly on in the background
All day and all night, and as soon as
Broadcasters said: ‘Four One commando’
Father would be on high alert, sensitised to the sound of the phone ringing.

And yet it never rang his boy was safe.
But that did not stop him wondering and waiting.
Waiting and wondering.
The awful thoughts inside the head, much worse than the reality.

The Father longed to hold his son in his arms,
Feel his nut brown hair, kiss his forehead.
And yet when he spoke he would say manly things
About water, or shaving, or food.

He loved him.
The Father loved him, and let him go.
He loved him.
The Father loved him, and let him go – as long as one day he would return.