Remembering

poppies as red as blood were the flowers that grew in the mud.

When my son Sean was still at primary school he wrote a poem for remembrance as part of a history lesson about the wars. I have been trying to recall the words but will have to do a search amongst the old photos. I know I still have the original somewhere.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old

Age shall not wither them, nor the years condemn

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning

We will remember them.

Jane Golightly by Catherine Turner nee Rock

The little town of Banjo Bay sits proudly in the cove,

Welcoming her sons home from their toil,

Her harbour filled with laughter, her streets bedecked with love,

A place for growing up and growing old.

The morning sun shines brightly on the narrow, cobbled streets,

As Jane Golightly rubs the chalky board,

‘Good morning children’ she exclaims ‘Come quickly, take your seats’,

‘Good morning Miss’ they chime with one accord.

Four and twenty little faces beam in adoration,

As teacher’s pet would everyone be known,

For joyfully she bears the burden of their education,

And every one she loves as t’were her own

As prim and proper as they come, the wagging tongues will say,

But maybe not as proper as they think,

For when the bell is rung and school is over for the day,

Jane Golightly likes to take a drink.

A drop or two before her supper helps her to relax,

Another drop to help digest the bread,

As she prepares tomorrow’s test she pours another glass,

Then one or two before she goes to bed.

Medicinal, that’s what it is, or so she tells herself,

A glass of comfort in a lonely life,

Long years now since Jane Golightly sat upon the shelf,

A teacher she will be, but not a wife.

No soul in Banjo Bay can know the secret that she keeps,

It never did her harm, and yet, of late

The devil’s demons hover at her shoulder as she sleeps,

And every morning chalky fingers shake.

No favourite should a teacher have, but rules are made to bend,

To one above all else her time she gives,

That one is little Jacob Brown, a boy who needs a friend,

For miserable the life the poor lad lives.

A mother who was laid to rest the day she gave him life,

A father who should hang his head in shame,

For every time he raises up a heavy hand to strike

The little boy who has to take the blame.

A grubby, frightened face set underneath a mop of curls,

Pouting lips that never learned to smile,

Too old to cry, too young to run from such a cruel world,

Innocence: grown old before it’s time.

No mother’s hand to comb the hair or wash the freckled face,

To gently rub the bruise and ease the pain,

No father’s hand to reassure, to cherish and keep safe,

No friend has he in all the world but Jane.

And now the sorry scene is set. The cottage dark and cold,

Jacob Brown takes up the leather pouch,

There inside he places every treasure that he owns,

Then Jacob, with a pounding heart creeps out.

Toward the lights of Banjo Bay he flies with leaping nerves,

Down to where the little school house stands,

In hopes to find the peace of mind that every child deserves,

Never more to fear a father’s hand.

‘Wake up Jane Golightly!. Come quickly! Let him in!’

‘Your friendship and protection does he seek!’

But lost is Jane Golightly in the deathly grip of gin,

With the devil’s demons does she sleep.

The little town of Banjo Bay prepares to meet the storm,

As Jacob crouches there beside the gate,

A simple cotton vest is all he wears to keep him warm,

A helpless lad, left in the jaws of fate.

And that is where she finds him, betrayed by friend and kin,

The father’s guilt not half as is her own,

For he has offered nothing, and nothing has he given,

But she has offered all and given none.

The morning sun shines down upon a restless, rolling tide,

As Jacob in the grip of fever sleeps,

And there is Jane Golightly sitting at his side.

A sad and silent vigil she must keep.

And now we see her taking up the little leather pouch,

That which he had carried on his flight,

There into her lap the meager trophies tumble out,

Pathetic tokens of a loveless life.

A marble and a penknife, a conker on a cord,

A handkerchief of lace, threadbare and frayed,

And here a little piece of chalk she used upon the board,

And there the scarlet ribbon she mislaid.

Now with her hand upon his heart she takes a sacred vow,

‘No more the demon drink shall pass my lips’,

‘My life I pledge from this day forth to thee, sweet Jacob Brown’,

And now upon his brow she plants a kiss.

A little lad in need of luck and luck comes none too soon,

For Jane Golightly takes the youngster in,

Little lads are hardy things and soon the roses bloom,

The boy who couldn’t smile begins to grin.

And what of he, the father, who had caused this misery,

Away to join the Legion some will say,

Fighting in a foreign land beyond the seven seas,

Never to return to Banjo Bay.

But thicker now than water runs the blood in Jacob’s veins,

And little boys will always need a dad,

Time and distance gently weave their magic spell again,

The villain now a hero to the lad.

Tis many a morning Jane Golightly comes into the room,

To see him dreaming, there beside the step,

Listening for a footfall she knows will never come,

Watching for a face he can’t forget.

But if Mohammed will not come the mountain has to move,

And so it is our story must unfold,

When Jane Golightly comes to wake the object of her love,

The leather pouch is gone. The pillow cold.

The chilling mist rolls in upon the narrow, cobbled streets

As Jane Golightly tosses back another,

Her shaking fingers marking the examination sheets,

A teacher she will be, but not a mother.

Mrs Edna Smart by Catherine Turner nee Rock

The little town of Banjo Bay sits proudly in the cove,

Welcoming her sons home from their toil,

Her harbour filled with laughter, her streets bedecked with love

A place for growing up and growing old.

The morning star shines down upon the gently rolling hills,

As Mrs. Smart comes to her bakery shop,

There’s dough to kneed, buns to ice and steaming pies to fill,

Much to do before she opens up.

Long years now since Edna at the sacred altar stood,

Promising her love till death must part,

Deeply had she loved him then and deeply always would,

The lad whose honest face had won her heart.

A bride was she of 3 short months before he sailed away,

Gone to claim his shilling from the King,

Never more to see the shore of peaceful Banjo Bay,

Or kiss the hand that wears his wedding ring.

Along the lane comes Charlie Bright, the simple butcher’s boy,

Delivering fresh kidney for her pies,

The steak and kidney pies that hungry fishermen enjoy,

Edna looks at him with sadness in her eyes.

Too late now to bear the child she dreamed of long ago,

No babe has she to carry on the name,

She gives the boy a currant bun and watches as he goes,

Then turns back to her baking once again.

And now a pretty face we see come in the creaking door,

Little Annie, here to start her day,

Edna Smart employed the girl to sweep the bakery floor,

And help to keep the spider-webs at bay.

Next into the little shop a stranger boldly comes,

A merchantman with medals on his chest,

He buys a sugary do-nut and a bag of sticky buns

As Edna’s heart beats wildly in her breast.

‘Come to put down roots’ says he, ‘Need to settle down’,

Where better to plant roots than Banjo Bay,

Until he finds a cosy cottage somewhere close to town,

The Jolly Sailor Inn is where he stays.

‘A fool am I’ thinks Edna Smart ‘for who would think that he’

‘A man so tall and fair with noble chin’

‘Would ever take a second glance at someone such as me’

And with a shrug takes up her rolling pin.

The morrow dawns to find our baker waiting at the door,

She watches as he saunters up Tide Lane,

Looking even finer than he had the day before,

She prays that he will call and buy again.

Her prayer is answered; here he comes to sample Edna’s wares,

And Edna, who has always walked with fate,

This time with a silver comb upon her bonny hair,

Thinks, ‘Maybe I was wrong. It’s not too late’.

Now in the Lane, each day the same, the merchantman we spy,

And as the kettle whistles on the stove,

He drops the currants in the buns and crimps the steaming pies,

All the while declaring of his love.

Showered is she with gifts from every corner of the world,

Gathered on his wanderings with the fleet,

A ring of gold, a shawl of lace, a pretty string of pearls

And shoes of finest satin on her feet.

Every afternoon the handsome seaman and his lass,

Hand in hand along the sea-shore go,

The citizens of Banjo Bay whispering as they pass,

A-worrying for Edna and her beau.

For all is never as it seems or so the saying goes,

And every snake that slithers will be caught,

And everyone in Banjo Bay but Edna seems to know

That the scoundrel has a girl in every port.

But blinded now is Edna Smart and ignorance is bliss,

She cares not whence he came or of his trade,

Lost within the spell of he who gives the lying kiss,

The child she always dreamed about is made.

The evening star shines down upon the town of Banjo Bay

As Mrs. Smart slips on the satin shoes,

Along the empty streets she strolls, smiling all the way,

Off to tell her man the happy news.

Into the Jolly Sailor Inn comes Edna in all haste

As all eyes turn toward the cellar door,

And there her handsome seaman with his arms around the waist

Of she who sweeps the spiders from the floor.

The evening fog rolls in upon the sleepy little lane,

As Edna Smart takes up the sharpened knife,

Never would he trifle with a helpless lass again,

And never would she be a seaman’s wife.

They say that when she searched the town the lying rogue had flown,

They say that she had murder in her eyes,

And from that day, though none could say exactly what went on,

No-one bought her steak and kidney pies.

So now she bakes just bread and cakes, the simplest of feasts,

She brings the bowl of flour to the table,

Then with one hand she mixes in the foaming, fragrant yeast,

And with the other gently rocks the cradle.

The Medals by Shirley Stone

I remember being young and thinking of the war
Whilst wearing grandad’s medals that I’d taken from his draw
I tried to ask him questions that formed within my mind
They must have seemed insensitive and probably unkind
I badgered him to tell me about those foreign lands
and pestered him to paint a scene to make me understand
He told me of his injuries that left his body weak
But all the hurts inside his mind were thoughts he couldn’t speak
I handed back the medals he always let me wear
And as I did he said these words
“Be glad that you weren’t there”
Copyright S. Stone 7/11/16

I wish I still had my grandad Bagleys medals. I, like Shirley, remember looking at them as a child. I know that one day some of his relatives came from Leicester and he gave them to their little boy. Grandad was very young when he went to war and was away in France for two years. Luckily for us he came home, injured and broken but back home. He never spoke about his experiences and I never asked him. I loved him very much and I know his genes have lived on in my brother and my son Adam. Miss you grandad.

 

Half Asleep by Catherine Turner

The dawn is gently breaking,
The air serene and still,
No mans land, a grassy field
Just beyond the hill,
The battery, a homestead
With windows welcoming,
The tangled wire a 5 bar gate
Where bluebirds sweetly sing,
Each muddy trench a furrow
Furnished by the plough,
Each tortured cry of misery
The lowing of a cow.
The acrid stench of cordite
Like heaven’s perfume drifts,
To mingle with the belching smoke
Of Autumn’s cooling mist,
Faces dressed in terror
Are smiling as they rest
In crumpled khaki uniforms
As sharp as Sunday best,
This blanket torn, how soft, how warm,
A silken downy sheet,
How sweet, this quiet moment
With all the world at peace.
The dawn is gently breaking,
Sweet Saviour I implore,
Hold back the sun, and let me dream,
For just one moment more.
Cath Turner..2014

Viola

The whiteness of the lily does not rob the little violet of it’s scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness ….author unknown.

Remember Me

Remember me as you pass by

As you are now so once was I

As I am now so you will be

Prepare  yourself to follow me

Love You More by James Carter

Do I love you to the moon and back?
No, I love you more than that.
I love you to the desert sands,
The mountains, stars, the planets and
I love you to the deepest sea,
And deeper still, through history.
Before beyond, I loved you then,
I love you now. I’ll love you when
The sun’s gone out, the moon’s gone home,
And all the stars are fully grown.
When I no longer say these words,
I’ll give them to the wind, the birds,
So that they will still be heard………
I love you.

For Libbie

Shilling by Catherine Turner (nee Rock)

The king gave me a shilling
So I proudly went to war,
Off to fight the enemy
Upon a foreign shore.
All old pals together
We marched in single file,
As gunfire like the reaper
Scythed along the line.
Forward ! Forward ! Forward !
Relentless as the rain,
Forward, ever forward,
Again..again…again.
‘Victory’ I hear them shout
As millions sleep in mud,
And only this have I to show
For all the wasted blood.
A medal for my bravery,
A telegram for my wife,
Heartbreak for my children
And a shilling for my life.

Sad reflection on all those lost in war and the families left behind. The photograph was taken at the victory celebration in Victoria Road, Old Hill in June 1945. The King’s/Queen’s Shilling has become synonymous with Joining the British Army. It is still unofficially described as “taking the Queen’s shilling”. This includes non-British and Commonwealth soldiers who join the British Army.

 copyright Catherine Turner.

He Is Gone by David Harkins 1981

You can shed tears that he is gone,
Or you can smile because he lived,
You can close your eyes and pray that he will come back,
Or you can open your eyes and see all that he has left.

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him
Or you can be full of the love that you shared,
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember him and only that he is gone
Or you can cherish his memory and let it live on,
You can cry and close your mind be empty and turn your
back,
Or you can do what he would want: smile, open your eyes,
love and go on.

apparently this poem was read out at the funeral of the Queen Mother copyright David Harkins