Poem for Armistice 2014

My family is like almost every other in the UK.

Just ask a British friend and they will be able to tell you who of their kin was killed in the First World War.

My paternal great uncle, died of pneumonia during basic training before he even stepped foot in France. Private Howells shivered to death in an army tent in Yorkshire, far away from the home fires of South Wales.

My maternal great great uncle found his way to France but never returned. All we have is a photograph of him in uniform and his geology book.

A hundred years later and after a lot of searching, my aunt and uncle have located his grave.  We are planning a trip to go and say hello.

His name was John Lewis. This poem is for him.

Shrapnel

Autumn, his plough folds the land

flattens mounds, fills trenches, yet

the lines are indelible.

In winter thin ponds form

in summer the clay shrinks

from boards and props.

Some years he doubles back

to level the fields, new steel

just turns up the old, not gull food

inedible scraps, no magpie

glitter in bullet cases

snips of barbed wire, bits of shells.

History’s not erased by work

still he tries to ditch the ghosts.

It’s hard not to see them

from the corner of his eyes.

There, the white plot fenced by firs
daily sight of that great loss.