PTSD

A young fit man, when he went off to war,
 but as soon as I saw him, close that door,
I knew he would never be the same,
'cause war it ruins, wounds and maims.

When I saw him again,his hands trembled, shook,
his face looked haunted, with anguished look.
Now and then, he cried out in mental pain.
I knew he'd come back, never being the same.

In the depths of the night, he cried out a name,
woke up sweating, said " it's happening again!"
A cigarette, would calm his broken thoughts,
alone he sat, feeling out of sorts.

I knew that he had P.T.S.D,
so I took him for a stay, in the Welsh country.
To a place where birds sang and fresh rivers flow,
a place of solitude, only peace would know.

In the woods, he sat with other friends,
chatted slept in tents, til the evenings end.
They learnt bush craft, and how to survive,
making campfires and fishing to stay alive...

Slowly he got better with his fragmented health,
began to improve, til he had mental wealth.
Now he is an instructor, teaching others bush craft,
and I'm glad I took him, to find that longed for, life raft.