1914-2014

1914, an English country lane,

A tender shining, after early morning rain,

A cartload of village men,

Soon to be marching to the thudding of a drum,

Digging ditches in the waste land of the Somme,

And they were young.

2014, a bright bronze bugle call,

Echoes of clarions disturb the churchyard wall,

In honour of village men

Whose names and dates are carved on the monument stone,

For black thunder cannons made them die alone,

When they were young.

Long ago, it was, but I remember still,

My grandfather, sat back in his chair,

Sunday morning sunlight on the windowsill,

The silver chain of his pocket watch,

Bright against his dark waistcoat,

His white hair well washed and combed,

Quiet, remote, a serene smile yet creased his mouth.

I was just a schoolboy. I did not understand

What it meant that he helped to save our land.

I only thought it good

That he looked like a grandfather should.

"He's been working in the gardens,"

My grandmother would say,

Meaning the local park,

Where I flew my kite, pretended I rode a horse,

And did all I could to play.

"He was at the Somme,

The great battle in the First World War,"

My father told me.

Only now I understand.

In his uniform, with his rifle,

He fought to defend our shore.

Now I know he listened

For cheerful laughter at the door,

Voices of friends lost forever in the war, 

When they were young.

(To conclude my poem in memory of my grandfather, William Dodd, who fought in and survived the Battle of the Somme, as a soldier in the South Lancashire Regiment, I add the words written on the white stone war memorial monuments in Lord Street, Southport, England.)

Tell Britain ye who mark this monument

Their portion is with the eternal

Faithful to her we fell and rest content

To famous men all earth is sepulchre

Look upward, standing mute, salute