Before Azincourt.

Poems here will not be so regular now as my stock is exhausted, but a trip to France tomorrow prompted this

Before Agincourt.

I’m off to France, I’m going to see
where ancient armies stood.
I’ll walk a field in Picardy
that sits between two woods.
Where Harry’s archers triumphed
when no one thought they could.

I won’t have marched from Harfleur
over eighteen sodden days.
I won’t be fighting dysentery,
nor lost mates on the way.
I’m booked on Friday’s ferry,
in a warm hotel I’ll stay.

I hope the weather’s sunny
but… if there should be a breeze,
will I hear the grey-goose feathers,
or the leaves, high in the trees?
As I stand where England’s arrows
felled French nobility.

Not Westmorland, nor Exeter
had caused this French defeat!
Five thousand English bowmen
standing firm on weary feet,
hammered home their sharpened stakes,
their enemy to meet.

The Azincourt museum
now recalls events that day
when England had her victory
near the town where I will stay,
near a small cross set above the place
ten thousand Frenchmen lay.

I’ll go, and I’ll pay homage,
to the men with big yew bows
but I won’t forget those Frenchmen
who never made it home.
I’ve booked a return ferry
and that’s comforting to know.

Then when I’m back at Woolverton
my longbow in my hand
I’ll think of Harry and his men,
of where they made their stand
and be glad that I am standing in
west-country meadowland.

The Honest Politition.

Today we have local elections across the country as well as a referendum on the alternative vote system which is supposed to make the voting system fairer. Somehow I think the problems are more fundamental.

The Honest Politition

A man with purpose, high ideals,
stood up before the crowd,
an indipendant candidate,
to tell it straight, he vowed.
You should all save our planet,
not just nod and say I know,
but leave your cars and ride your bikes
keep heating turned down low.

Put up more new wind turbines
without fear they might be seen
and ease your carbon footprint,
leaving air both fresh and clean.
He told it just the way it was,
the price we all must pay
to cancell out the credit crunch
and find a better way.

He warned of increased taxes,
of job losses and hard times,
increased global recession,
don’t ignore the warning signs.
I will not lie to you, he said.
Cuts there will have to be
in health and education,
and expect redundancies.

We have to take this all on board
and face the coming storm,
tighten our belts and ride it out
in time the tide will turn.
Return my manifesto
and I offer you some hope!
The honest politition
did not recieve one vote.

I am Born.

For one of my courses I was asked to write a poem entitled I am born. Obviously drawn from the memories of those present at the event I was surprised how atmospheric it turned out.

I am Born.

Post-war winter, harsh and hard,
wild winds and soft snow flurries.
Across a darkened old farmyard.
black bag in hand, he scurries.
Watching the window and the clock
a father’s full of worry,
Until at last the doctors knock,
then up the stairs they hurry.

Above, a labour weary wife
and anxious midwife wait.
An ancient struggle for new life
they hope it’s not too late.
A daughter’s face is tired and pale,
she’s frightened for her mother.
The silence, shattered by a wail,
at last, she has a brother.

Old Tom.

Old Tom

I do the odd jobs round here now
a couple of hours a week,
sweeping leaves and tidying,
they likes it all kept neat.
I used to work here all day long
from dawn to dusk, and more,
but now it’s only used weekends,
not like it was before.

The loose box, where I keeps me brush,
I fed the calves in this.
The cowshed used to be out there,
that’s somewhere that I miss
but now it’s just a swimming pool,
a place they can unwind.
The same old smelly chlorine though,
is used there to remind.

The big house used to be the barn,
you wouldn’t know it now
The wagon shed of rough-cut wood
was where we kept the plough.
Long rows of posh and shiny cars
get parked there now in haste.
Then clear off back to town again,
It’s such a blooming waste.

The Bluebell Wood.

The Bluebell Wood.

My son was born when bluebells
were carpeting the woods,
we walked amongst their fragrance,
felt their coolness on our feet,
soaked up the woodland silence,
broken only by a bird,
the sudden shouted warning
of a pheasant we’d disturbed.

We walked in dappled shadows
under hazel, ash and birch,
we stopped and looked at piles of earth
the badgers had disturbed.
Our footprints left along with theirs
would say we’d passed that way
and each year when the bluebells bloom
I think about that day.

Rucksack and Boots.

Rucksack and Boots.

Well worn travelling companions,
tried and tested over time.
Co-conspirators in dreams of escape,
freedom’s encouraging accomplices,
familiar accessories in shared endeavour.

Reminders of ambitions achieved,
of heather covered hills and tumbling streams,
of misty moors, or the scatter of scree,
the sting of an icy mountain breeze,
or song of the wind high in the trees,
the call of the wild that’s still in me.

Between The Lines.

Stanley Hankin, Osaka 1945.

The subject of last week’s poem joined the RAF as a teenager and shortly after was taken prisoner by the Japanese. He spent four years as a POW and celebrated his twenty-first birthday in a copper mine in Japan. His mother kept the Red Cross cards he was able to send home, heavily censured and no doubt wanting to ease his mother’s worry, they made little of the hardships he endured. As I read them, knowing the cruelty he had suffered, I found myself reading between the lines.

‘Between the Lines.’
( A letter home from a Japanese prisoner of war)

Do not worry about me,
we have arrived safely
can’t tell you where,
you know the form
but safe to say
it’s very warm.

The other chaps here are all great,
they fuss around
their youngest mate.
but not like you,
and soon they say
we’re on the move again.

Each night to the Red Cross I pray.
Your letters; all arrived today.
I read them now
and then rejoice
for in your words
I hear your voice.

The food here’s good, a lovely smell,
there’s plenty, and they feed us well.
It’s not home cooking
but tastes OK.
That’s all for now,
all I can say.

The in Bed Day

When visiting an old chap in a care home a year or so ago I was so moved by what I found that I had to get something down on paper. This is the result.

The in Bed Day.

Spring sun shines through his window
warm light falls across an empty chair.
Outside bushes burst with green buds,
birds swoop to and from their nests.
But from the corner, where the remnants
of his lunch remain by his bed.
‘I’m having an in bed day.’

Not the voice of the caustic old man
who took delight at the precise
and sharp remark, that cut or stung,
nor the demanding, ‘have you remembered?’
That accompanied every delivery
of his constant daily requirements,
but a frail, ‘I’m having an in bed day.’

Gone the voice of the independent man
who scorned his family and their help
yet cared for a wife dying of cancer.
Then nursed a wife, robbed of her mind
by dementia, with unfailing attention,
until his own health and age, failed him.
Just a tired, ‘I’m having an in bed day.’

Forgotten, the voice of the young airman
who as a teen, proudly went to war.
To Singapore as it was seized.
Three years a prisoner of the Japanese.
Long wasted years, of mining
of cruelty, and disease.
A broken, ‘I’m having an in bed day.’

The voice of a frail, tired and broken man
who has again surrendered.
This time to age’s relentless advance.
Until, not wanting to struggle with the day,
when from his bed the view is not
so different, to that one from his chair.
‘I’m having an in bed day.’ A man in care.

The Call of the Drum

The Call of the Drum

Shepherd boy, young Billy Jones, driven by hunger, forced to roam,
heard the drum and fife that played, took the shilling, marched away.
Another countryman, unplanned, listed, sworn in, made to stand.
Left his home shores far behind, safe he kept them in his mind.
Red squares stood against the blue, Billy remained at Waterloo.

Charlie Smith who ploughed with pride, familiar hills and countryside,
was hooked by one to many jars bought by a sergeant of hussars.
Another countryman, unplanned, listed, sworn in, made to stand.
His skill with horses plain to see, was quickly trained for cavalry.
One of six hundred on that day, lost with half the Light Brigade.

Your country needs you; Kitchener called, from the posters on the wall.
Tommy Clark thought that meant him, made his mark and he was in.
Another countryman, unplanned, listed, sworn in, made to stand.
An evening at the village dance, trained in weeks then sent to France,
fourteen days beside the Somme, over the top, gassed and gone.

Appeasing Hitler didn’t work, the army retreated from Dunkirk.
Chalky White, increased his age, another name went on the page
Another countryman, unplanned, listed, sworn in, made to stand.
Landed at D-day on Sword Beach then was wounded, out of reach.
Help didn’t come, he had to stay and his young life just ebbed away.

Bin Laden’s henchmen hit New York, the politicians ceased their talk.
Ross Peters, from the Kent TA, raised his hand and said OK.
Another countryman, unplanned, listed, sworn in, made to stand.
Flown out to Afghanistan, served with the Rifles in Helmand,
there training was no guarantee, and no one saw the IED.

Generations heard the drum, and to its call they all have come.
Unsung heroes from the land all marched away with wave of hand.
Countrymen, who hadn’t planned, to list, or swear, or make a stand,
heard its mesmerising beat and followed on with willing feet.
Till slowly beats a single drum, and slowly, carried home they come.

To Phil.

Phil (Speedy) Anderson, holding down the sidecar wheel at Brands Hatch 1970.

In 1964, arriving at Tidworth to join The Royal Dragoons, I met another young recruit who had arrived from Catterick the same day. Philip (Speedy) Anderson and I became firm friends immediately. He would partner me in almost all of the harebrained schemes I would dream up, even an SAS selection course at Hereford. Post army days he took over as my sidecar passenger and we travelled most of the mainland race circuits. Later, both with families now, we returned to our common roots, working on farms in Hampshire and Somerset. Sadly we then lost contact and when I finally tracked him down again he had just died of cancer. So this one is for you Phil!

To Phil

I think about you often mate
two rookies, fresh and new
arriving down at Tidworth.
How little then we knew.

Or laagered up at Soltau
drinking mugs of steaming tea
exchanging idle banter
that sounded good to me.

I see your helmet-hidden head
as round Brands Hatch we slide
just inches from the tarmac,
one of our better rides.

Later, both back on the land,
your children played with mine,
but now I’ve only memories.
You’ve left us all behind.

The Silent Saboteur.

The Silent Saboteur

I am the silent saboteur
a master at my trade.
I wait and watch unnoticed,
until contact is made

A secret sleeper waiting
the call to activate
my plan of slow destruction.
To stop? It is too late.

I infiltrate and penetrate,
to weaknesses I latch.
Unseen I will gain access
through any little scratch.

Deep under your defences,
that’s where I operate,
eroding and corroding,
till at last, I seal your fate.

My mission plan? It’s simple,
it’s to damage and destroy.
I am the total terrorist.
It’s work that I enjoy.

With care, my targets I select
and you could be the next.
Expect me any time at all,
I doubt that you’ll suspect.

So as you wash your shiny car
here’s something you can trust.
I am already where you are.
My name? It’s Mister Rust.

Calling the Cows Home

In 1976 I took a job on a farm in Somerset as a farm mechanic, mending farm machinery. Before long I learnt to relief milk for the herdsman, and so, when he became ill, I was asked to take on the herd. My father had also been a herdsman, as had his father and countless generations before him. This was a job I was to do for nearly twenty-five years. It somehow seemed a natural thing to do at the time, although it was a change of direction that I certainly had not planned.

Calling the Cows Home.

‘Come on then, come on then,’
once more I hear him call
and again he is beside me
inside me, but not with me.

‘Come on girls come on then,’
echoes his long lost voice,
it stirs me and reminds me,
as his words, leave my lips.

‘Come on lazy bones, come on then.’
The last cow that plods past,
hears him sooth, with my voice,
and my hand rests on her rump.

‘Go on, girls, keep going then,’
we urge the straggling file,
although I walk alone,
the last of a long, long line.

‘Good girls, keep on going then.’
Is it just his voice I hear?
Are other echoes from the past
calling my cows home?