vi. Malvern Road Station, Cheltenham
I. (9/4/1915)
For once let’s not dwell on impending death,
scan the thumbs-up rows of grinning faces
like bone-worn worms grubbing out fresh flesh
for those who got thumbs down, didn’t make it -
Wilf Barton, Serge Honey, first from the ship,
returned as cap, belt, identity disc -
a merry bunch, pleased as punch to be off;
that day of fĂȘte then cheerful letters home,
spry postcards from a holiday gone wrong:
Aubrey and I drink weak tea now, talk Gloucs,
bullets seem like small birds at dawn chorus…
But back on the platform, between the smiles,
I spot my chap, hesitant, stiff, crowd-shy,
already out with the burying party.
II. (20/1/2005)
I’d hoped for a single snowdrop hunched by the tracks
- Catullus’ flower untouched, as yet, in the grass -
a star-chipped salve to soothe the scar of waste,
stench of rot, not quite sweet, smear of industrial estate.
But there’s no hope, no art that can heal the past;
walls have been levelled, diggers come and gone.
The day fails, sky drags with unfallen snow;
the hour, already, of the plough and of the crow.
All we can do here is say nothing and move on.
For once let’s not dwell on impending death,
scan the thumbs-up rows of grinning faces
like bone-worn worms grubbing out fresh flesh
for those who got thumbs down, didn’t make it -
Wilf Barton, Serge Honey, first from the ship,
returned as cap, belt, identity disc -
a merry bunch, pleased as punch to be off;
that day of fĂȘte then cheerful letters home,
spry postcards from a holiday gone wrong:
Aubrey and I drink weak tea now, talk Gloucs,
bullets seem like small birds at dawn chorus…
But back on the platform, between the smiles,
I spot my chap, hesitant, stiff, crowd-shy,
already out with the burying party.
II. (20/1/2005)
I’d hoped for a single snowdrop hunched by the tracks
- Catullus’ flower untouched, as yet, in the grass -
a star-chipped salve to soothe the scar of waste,
stench of rot, not quite sweet, smear of industrial estate.
But there’s no hope, no art that can heal the past;
walls have been levelled, diggers come and gone.
The day fails, sky drags with unfallen snow;
the hour, already, of the plough and of the crow.
All we can do here is say nothing and move on.
Page(s) 66
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