If songs were sung of my father
he would be as Heracles,
all his labours, never-ending,
his every attempt to please.
And out of love for her
and all three of their children,
he, with hammer in his hand
braved her many-headed hydra,
all alone in No Man’s Land.
One head bore the scent of Malbec
when it whispered her affliction.
Others, smoking at the mouth
filled the air with her addiction.
Yet every head he strove to conquer
re-emerged relentlessly,
for they were fed by her
who he was fraught to rescue,
her who he tried not to doubt,
her, whose unrelenting storm
would one day burn his patience out.
If songs were sung of my father
I’d have sung where she had not,
for only once he’d lit their pyre
did she realise what she’d lost.
© Charlotte Chapman
Charlotte Chapman is 19 years old and studies History at the University of Birmingham. She tends to write poems and short stories, often based on historical events, Greek mythology or her own personal experiences. To read more of her work visit:
