Through the gloom she found their spot where the flowers bloomed in the sunshine that sneaked through the gap in the tree canopy above.
The ground was damp but she gave it no mind as she lay down in the wild grass. The sun warmed her face and arms, spring was in the air once again.
Another year without him, another year waiting for him to come home. She laughed at the old saying as it passed through her mind again: ‘They’ll be home by Christmas.’ Now that had become a joke in itself, used in irony when something was taking longer than it should have. But the talk in the papers and in the pubs was of the end coming soon. It had been four years, the Boche were on the verge of collapse.
Her hands wandered across her stomach, her face, her arms, her thighs. She longed for it to be his touch. She longed to hear his tender whisper in her ear as he lay next to her: ‘Bright Eyes,’ she heard his voice, a feint whisper on the breeze, calling her by the pet name he had given her as he stared into her clear, deep blue irises.
When she opened her eyes again the sky had clouded over. She had no idea how long she had lain there. The damp ground became cool and unwelcoming, a shiver ran through her body.
She sat up and she knew something had happened. The feeling of dread crept through her. She stood and ran through the woods, back to the village.
She stopped dead at the end of the main street. The postman’s bicycle was leaning against the door of his mother’s house. She heard the cries of anguish as she approached the dull terraced building.
The bright, deep blue drained away. With cold, grey eyes she stepped into the house. She had waited in vain. The colour of her world had been extinguished on a field hundreds of miles away in a foreign land.