Under the clock at Waterloo
Stood Alice, in her best Sunday attire.
Her hair shone like gold - and,
Dressed in her best, 'twas all that she could aspire.

The years of the war, the letters had sped,
Telling love; that she stored in her heart,
Of the anguish, and torment she suffered,
For the time they were spending apart.

My visits to you seemed near hopeless,
As the trains were too crowded with troops.
The photos you sent me I cherished,
Though you were hard to pick out in the groups.

Alice smiled, though inside she was quaking,
She thought of joy, in the future they'd share,
Of all that she'd do just to please him;
Work and give, leaving nothing to spare.

Crowds poured out from the platform,
Then she saw him. Her heart gave a leap,
He was tall, and handsome, wonderful,
She smiled, as tears wetted her cheek.

An evacuee, he was no longer,
He was home to his mother at last.
They stood, arms holding each other,
Then walked, smiling and chatting, forgetting the past.

© Kathy Mckay Sinclair 2011