Marching

A Passing out Parade is the culmination of military training, a time that those passing out take great pride in. This parade marks the end of, in our case, two years, training and for the first time we marched through Bovington wearing the uniforms of the regiments we were to join. It also marked the end of our time together as we left to join the regiments of the Royal Armoured Corp.

Marching

Quick march, left right, left right, left.
Pass-out troop is marching, the best of the best.
Buffed brass buttons, shining in the sun.
Best black boots, following the drum.
Heads up, chests out, arms swung high.
Band’s playing Grenadiers, we’re swaggering in time.
Mown grass, cherry blossom, spring in the air,
jaded civvies with their kids, vacant looks and stares.

Lancer to the left of me, hussar to the right,
between a dragoon, with his head held high.
Echoes ring of Waterloo, passing round the square.
Eagle on my cap badge, saying. ‘We were there!’
Enniskillens, Scots Greys, Death or Glory boys,
most enlisting straight from school. Down to Bovy where;
sergeants, corporals, shouted, moulded, helping us to grow.
Now job done, they stand and watch, tomorrows NCOs.

Marching to Aida now, the pace has changed to slow,
arms kept straight, down by our sides, toes kept low.
On round past the general with a smart, eyes right!
He stands returning our salute, our line still tight.
Parents proudly snap and clap and wave, but we
keep our eyes fixed straight ahead and march in unity.
Past the regiment lined up, their young eyes watch with awe.
as we had watched, lined up as them, just two years before.

Night Drive.

An early post this week as away this weekend, I hope the drive is better than this one was.

Night Drive.

Tunnels of black reflections rushing past.
Wipers beating, heater blowing numb tiredness.
White starbursts, stabbing at eyes that try to shut.
Red! …Warning, braking, stopping, waiting.
Rotating blue, wailing through wetness.
Arms waving, lips mouthing unheard words.
Kaleidoscopes of amber, usher us away.
Alert eyes, avoiding, another RTA.

The Archer

Retirement has given me the opportunity to revisit some of the things that gave me pleasure as a boy. Three weeks ago I started an archery course with my local club, one of the results is below.

The Archer.

I stepped up to the line today,
placed both my feet astride.
I stood, side on, with others
taking stance on either side.
They looked to me proficient,
to them, I was untried.

I breathed in deep and focused.
I calmed myself inside,
remembered the instruction
given by my coach and guide
and in my hand it felt that time
itself was brushed aside.

I raised my arm up to full stretch,
once more I held a bow
but not of rough barked Hazel
hacked from the old hedgerow,
and strung with orange bailer twine,
of many years ago.

I drew my hand back to my mouth
my muscles all stretched tight
I loosed the string and waited…
I watched the arrow’s flight.
I heard the thud as it went home,
It filled me with delight.

It wasn’t gold, not this time,
It went a little wide.
But out of all proportion,
was the joy it did provide.
Again I am an archer,
and in that I take a pride.

Son of Wessex.

Beneath the hills of Exmoor.

The story behind last week’s poem was discovered while researching family history. This was something I didn’t do until after a totally unrelated chain of events led to me moving to Somerset in 1976. Both my parents were born in Kent and I had naturally assumed that this would be the area I would find most of my ancestors. However that was not to be the case, I found that three of my grandparents were born quite close to where I live now, I had already moved back to my roots in the west-country.

Son of Wessex

I am a son of Wessex
despite all I had heard.
I thought I belonged to the East,
my parents of that earth
where Kent is close to Surrey,
the county of my birth.

But I’m a son of Wessex,
in that ancient western realm
ancestral generations
over centuries abound.
Grandparents and their forbears
set my roots deep in its ground.

From the tidal rushing Severn,
along Dorset’s leafy rides
beneath the hills of Exmoor,
my ancestors have survived.
Some magnetism pulled me back
to where they lived their lives.

I have returned to Wessex,
with luck I’ll never leave.
I feel at home with where I am,
my journey seems complete
and it’s the soil of Wessex
I would feel beneath my feet.

A Wessex Woman’s Tale.

The facts that relate to the following poem, about a woman who lived in Yetminster, in the eighteenth century, were discovered in the Dorchester records office some years ago. The facts are taken from entries in the parish records of births and burials, and in other records that had been kept in the parish chest. Many thanks are due to the local history society who had transcribed these records and made my job considerably easier. Of course the record entries tell only part of the story, and the following poem is very much my personal interpretation of these entries.

A Wessex Woman’s Tale
(Or: The Ballad of Grace Jenner.)
Yetminster 1736 – 1810

She stood before the parish court
as she had done before.
She faced, full on, her future,
we know not what she saw.
Her fate, and that of those she loved,
out of her hands once more.

I wonder if her head was low
or if she held it high?
Would she have felt fear in her heart
or readied to defy?
For to her children, she was true,
what profit now to lie?

‘Grace Jenner, you are here today
to answer to this court
upon whose purse already, you
have leaned on for support,
and yet, another base born child
into this world you’ve brought.’

Did magistrate look down his nose
as he read out her sin?
Did Parson feel compassion for
the plight that she was in?
Or did the dwindling parish funds
leave sympathy too thin?

In fifty seven, it says here
you spawned a son named John.’
Words read from a dark ledger,
by a clerk, who hurried on.
‘Received then forty payments,
the father had long gone.’

I wonder did she love the man
whose name she chose to hide?
Was it that she hoped someday
to stand there as his bride?
Had he been cruelly using her,
and then, cast her aside?

‘When summoned here the first time
she was forced to speak his name
and Richard Oliver then met
the price we did reclaim.
But that was not the end of it,
or of her sinful game.’

Why did the clerk not tell the court
for what else she’d been paid?
To tend the sick, the orphaned child
that as her own she raised,
the old and frail she’d tended to
as their last prayers were made.

‘In seventeen hundred and sixty,’
the dull old clerk droned on.
‘She burdened us this time with twins,
with Eleanor and Tom.
But still there was no husband,
no one to right her wrong.’

But what of how young Gracie felt
with three young to support.
Her worries at their illnesses,
their hunger, never short,
with poverty for comfort,
what was her last resort?

‘Young Eleanor was taken ill,
then died. The price of sin.
The parish paid for shroud and bell,
the cask they laid her in.
Grace Jenner still drew heavily,
for her and her two kin.’

I picture Grace beside that grave
young John stood by her side
her baby Tom still in her arms.
I hear her silent cries.
A Wessex woman in her grief
with tears still in her eyes.

The clerk, he paused, he turned the page,
then once more, on he read.
‘When smallpox came, her Tom was ill.
The doctor? Paid!’ He said.
‘Paid; for John’s shoes and britches,
he’s apprenticed now instead.

When Yetminster had smallpox
and fear made people hide,
who did they pay to sooth the sick
staying safe by fire-sides?
Or pay to tend the orphans
of parents who had died?

‘Grace Jenner has a daughter now
and Sarah is her name.
She’s yet another bastard child
to cause our elders pain.
Once more Grace has no husband,
her story stays the same.

The parish records bear this out,
it cannot be denied.
They also show a mother’s love
and of how hard she tried
to clothe and feed her family
and keep them by her side.

Two centuries slipped by before
her story was discovered.
Now, slowly, as the tale unfurls
of Sarah, and her brothers.
I warm to Grace, I’m proud she is
my five times great, grandmother.

White Christmas?

Christmas Day 2010 in Therfield, Hertfordshire.

I have just spent a great Christmas with my son Toby and his family in Hertfordshire, but it seems all was not what it appeared.

White Christmas?

It was not a white Christmas!
At least,
that’s what the bookies said.
Though I woke to excited squeals of delight
That drowned out the rip and tear of paper
and outside the world was, as it was last night,
white, covered and crisply encased.

Though snow crunched under my feet,
icicles, hung from thatched eves,
and threaten to drop, but didn’t drip.
Rooks, backlit by brilliant blue,
were black silhouettes,
watching from empty branches,
as my breath, billowed out before me.

Though occasional cars slithered past
as feet slipped on glazed pavements,
or slid into toboggan tracks,
my eyes squinted at reflected light,
and Christmas card scenes surrounded me,
Santa and snowman sharing,
what once was a lawn.

You see, this snow fell yesterday,
or the day before,
or for days before that,
but sad to say; none today.
So it was not a white Christmas!
At least,
that’s what the bookies said.

Christmas Shopping.

This will be the last post now until the New Year. May I wish anyone who calls in here a very happy Christmas and a productive and prosperous New Year. The following poem is the result of a recent trip to the German Market at Broadmead in Bristol. This month I also have a short poem in Four&Twenty magazine, click “here” for a free magazine download.

Christmas Shopping

Bristol Christmas shoppers
walking briskly round Broadmead
to the plaintive sound of pan pipes
busking on the pavement side,
past brightly coloured bric-a-brac
on German market stalls,
past fairy lights and seasonal sights,
the vendors and their sweet delights,
… but always there is more to see,
around the corner, up the stairs,
the Cabot Centre over there,
where Santa’s grotto must be found,
with all the masses milling round,
bags overfilled with things they need,
with gifts for friends, there’s mouths to feed.
Then tired, and spent, they head for home,
they queue, they catch the park and ride,
then warm up by their fire sides,
they wrap their gifts, and write their cards
all filled with words of festive cheer.
Then do it all again, next year?

The Hunter

The Hunter.

I was a hunter long ago
back at the start of time,
then hunger made me fleet of foot
and silent was my stride.

I’d stalk the wooded hollows,
among the trees I’d hide,
I’d wait in dappled shadows,
bow ready at my side.

I learnt the way of those I’d kill,
of how they moved and why,
respected and admired them,
felt sorrow when they died.

But I’d a wife and family,
was mindful of their needs,
I’d kill enough to keep them fed,
I never killed for greed.

Each shot was measured carefully,
I tried to limit pain,
I’d loose my arrows straight and true,
was thankful for my gain.

No longer do I have the need
to kill to keep us fed,
the supermarket shelves are full
of meat that’s all blood red.

But blood is still on someone’s hands,
though we don’t have to see
the herds of what was once my prey
disposed of humanely.

No thought is given anymore
to that once proud, wild beast,
that soon will be the centrepiece
of another daily feast.

I can’t help wondering sometimes
as I carve a joint of meat,
we rarely have to worry now
for us this life is sweet.

And in this land of plenty
where I’m told we’re all obese,
would we all be more healthy
if such death we had to see?

Would we eat only what we need,
remembering what we know?
That man, for all his progress
was a hunter long ago.

Student Riot.

Driven to write after watching the protests at Westminster yesterday.

Student riot

Tonight I watched as flames were fanned,
bright orange, flickered first, then flared
beneath Westminster’s walls
and peaceful protest turned to wild revolt.
Not Paris or Tiananmen; no tanks
but still our students massed and marched
incensed with discontent,
and met with mounted crowd control,
contained, and kettled, faced its charge.
A bloody exchange of views expressed
as politicians passed their bill
and lay the burden of our debt
on those who have to fail us yet.

The Old Roman Road

On stopping beside an old Roman road through the woods.

The Old Roman Road

Can you hear them?
The tramp tramp, of troops marching,
soldiers, striding out with sandaled feet.
The slap of sword against a leg,
the Latin tones of legionnaires,
or a Centurion demanding silence.

Would they have rested here?
Refreshed their mouths with watered wine,
remembered last nights revelry,
boasted of conquests with Celtic beauties,
or simply thought of home,
of wives, of lovers, of long lost friends.

Would they have sung a marching song?
A baritone chant, that chased away the miles,
or heaped praise on Caesar.
Perhaps their hearts were heavy?
Marching against uprising Iceni,
Boudicca’s battalions rebelling.

Did they march this way when they left?
Returned to Rome, to their homes.
Four centuries of marching feet
have passed along this ancient path
This leafy lane between the trees
that echoes only to the breeze.

I think they still march on this road,
march through the centuries unseen
on cobble stones that are long gone,
and in the whisper of the wind,
sandaled feet are still marching,
marching, marching…

A Night at the Orchid.

Those that grew up in South East London, or that corner of Surrey and Kent in the 50s, 60, or 70s will probably remember the lure of the dancehalls and later disco’s. Places like, ‘The Orchid Ballroom,’ (later to become ‘Tiffany’s’) in Purley, Surrey, a regular haunt and meeting place on a Friday or Saturday night for thousands of young people. Perhaps for some of you who do remember, this may ring a few bells. This particular evening was in July 1974.

A Night at the Orchid

The band is playing the music is loud
the Orchid is buzzing, it’s got a good crowd.
Disco lights flashing all over the place
throw splashes of purple and green on each face.
Dancers gyrating all over the floor,
the number ends and they call for more.

Men are in suits and girls in their glad rags,
dancing in couples, or just around handbags.
I’m at the bar with a glass in my hand,
looking in awe at this great wonderland,
hoping perhaps that soon I might see
a girl on her own who might dance with me.

Oh she looks gorgeous, just there, by the wall,
with lovely dark hair and she’s not very tall.
I’d like to ask her, but don’t think I dare,
I’ll have to be careful, it’s rude to stare.
I think she’s seen me, now was that a smile?
I bet if I ask her she’ll run a mile.

My heart beats faster my mouth is so dry,
my legs won’t move, but I do want to try.
I’m almost there now, it should be OK.
She can only say no, but what do I say?
I‘m going to ask her, I will take a chance.
‘Excuse me, but… Would you like to dance?’

She did say yes and we danced for a while,
and me? I was simply lost in her smile.
Then much later on when the band played slow
when the night was late and the lights were low.
It was then that I held her close and tight
in the long slow dance that ends the night.

Our evening, it ended in perfect bliss
we fixed a first date and shared a first kiss.
The Orchid has gone now. The band retired
all quite unaware of what had transpired.
They never knew of the change to my life,
that because of them, I had just met my wife.

Lessons of War.

This was inspired by the classroom scene in the film version of ‘All Quiet on the Western Front.’

Lessons of War.

Back before Christmas, I told them,
in the classroom, before they left home.
Your country needs, you!
I pointed, at young Thomas Ross,
his face, flushed red, and you,
and you, at Clarke and Smith.

At Clarke and Smith, whose speed and strength
had graced the first fifteen
so freely they gave their attention,
their faces etched with enthusiasm.
not fear, but adventure, at the end of term.
All three, they listened, intent.

They listened, intent, and I sent them
Clarke and Smith and Ross.
They shook my hand and departed,
I watched as they marched to the station,
I waved and I cheered with pride,
as they disappeared in the steam.

As they disappeared, in the steam
like the hundreds that followed behind them
until now, I’m alone in the classroom
with their voices echoing round me,
Clarke, and Smith, and Ross.
Too late for the lessons of war