William H.A. Willbond MSM, CD
A DREAM IN BRENTWOOD BAY
I smell again fresh Turkish Bread
New baking in the dome
It wafts across my camp cot bed
in the bunker I call home.
I see a weathered Ancient Greek
Wrinkled tall and lean
As homeward bound he guides his sheep
Like in a biblical scene.
On sand bags I sit in that lookout pit
On top of Boghazi Hill
And I hear again the Bren-gun fire
That breaks the evening still.
I roll onto my other side
Curled up like when I was born
In sweat I wake in Brentwood Bay
and escape to a sunlit morn.
©Copyright 2002 by William H.A. Willbond MSM, CD
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem one summer morning when I lived in Brentwood Bay – many, many years after I left Cyprus. I woke up in a cold sweat – got a pencil and wrote it down. Of the hundreds of poems I have written, my wife Lynne thinks this is one of my best. Smelling fresh Turkish bread was an important thing when one was on hard rations for a long period. I felt so bad for our airborne troops in Somalia as they were on hard rations the whole time. If you have not eaten out of a tin can for extended periods of time you do not realize the “thought” that fresh cooked food congers up. To this day when I pass the corned beef tins in the supermarket, I taste again the “tin can acid” and get a twinge in my stomach. I know is psychological, but that doesn’t make it go away.