The Coat

A young German in Scotland in let's say '42
A prisoner in the hills, working bloody fingers blue
Spent Easter in the homes of the folk he's meant to kill
Gave some broken thanks to the woman waiting still

The mother in the room was torn with what she saw
The Hun in my kitchen but "a boy's face: cold and raw"
Compassion won that tussle and warmth was brought to bare
And the Hun was sent back to camp with dad's old woollen coat

The coat was old and in less than best condition
It belonged to a sign writer and it wore his glossy mark
Now hugged a frozen boy in a sodden prison bed
It's furry grip forgave him so he held it close around his head

In minutes stolen here and there, it was his only focus
Bent double in the fading light with rusted razor's edge
Picked clean the woollen corpse of its glossy white infection
His hands chapped and bled while his head could wander free

Away from that damp hut to a colder, crisper clime
Where snow replaced the drizzle and the water swapped with wine
His brothers were away but his mother waited still
Did she know, that her boy, was in a hut, upon that hill?

And so returning to that faux-foster mother's home
The boy displayed his gift as a gift just of his own
His gift to that family, to himself an indication
That her love and her compassion had been a revelation
The coat now wore as if it had been made to measure
Not a sign of paint, nor hint of smoke, this memory became a treasure
The prisoner's stature was enhanced, and he cut a swathe into their hearts
And the memory, of that boy, of that act, and his resilience
It persists in memories yet
As a gift, it is a treat, it is a distraction from the rest
Because there's a hint in there
Of what people look like, when they're at their best.