Lesley Evans
The process. I’ve had the refrain of this poem rattling around in my head for years. I’ve actually used it once but was never really happy with the poem. This photo and background reading about the major offensive which was fought at Argonne, gave me the setting it needed.
Soul Survivor
Silent he stands,
Bereft of his kin,
One single, solit’ry witness
to a war he couldn’t win.
A thousand times he’s heard ‘Advance’,
A thousand times ‘Retreat!’
And many thousand times, the chime of marching soldiers’ feet.
And just what were they fighting for
This poor bedraggled band?
Such tragic loss of life was fought
To win this strip of land!
This land was once a forest,
A community of souls,
Supporting one another -
Where peace and harmony ruled.
Yet they knew the war was coming,
It was whispered on the wind,
Transported by the thrum-beats of their roots, from kin to kin.
So silent he stands,
Bereft of his kin,
One single, solit’ry witness
to a war they couldn’t win.
A thousand times he’d heard ‘Man down’,
A thousand times ‘Deploy!’
And many thousand times the whine of weaponry’s recoil.
He’d witnessed striplings blown apart,
Uprooted from the ground,
Vet’rans sacrificed to plump the vanity of man.
There’s no such thing as No Man’s Land
For sturdy oak or pine,
For their dappled woodland glades
It was a question then of time.
They used to stand together
In the forests of Argonne,
But a brutal rape of nature
Left just one of them, alone.
Now silent he stands,
Bereft of his kin,
As he guards a hillside cemetery,
A testament to men.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Memory Box
Here’s a question I’ve been pondering, it’s both profound and deep -
How does my memory box decide which memories to keep?
My brain’s precise computer is selective, that’s apparent
Retaining images I’d chose and some I wish it hadn’t,
Like childhood tears, nightmares’ fears and sinking in the sand
And my brother’s tease of spiders’ knees, those really should be banned.
But something I have noticed, at least it does appear, that
My memory box of younger days seems formed of crystal - clear.
Here’s latchet rugs, my grandma’s hugs and Christmas round the table,
The turkey roast, the loyal toast and socks from Aunty Mabel.
There’s schoolboy jokes, girls’ slights and pokes and Miss Kelynack’s classes,
My first high heels, ‘Strawberry Fields’ and Buddy Holly’s glasses.
Everywhere there’s summer days, jumping waves and picnics on the beach
Precise in every detail, not even out of reach,
But memories of later years are becoming less defined
As if my memory box is being gradually lined.
My wedding day is just a blur, though the joy and love remain
And Johnson’s powdered baby baths are thankfully retained.
But there’s many things I don’t recall, so before they’re really gone,
I’m hunting out my photos to remind me of each one.
Here’s baby giggles, dressing wriggles, tentative first steps,
Dirty faces, Sports’ Day races with numerous mishaps.
Youth club laughs, plaster casts and camping in the rain,
Smoky fires, leaky kayaks - and nobody complained!
There’s sulky teens in too-tight jeans avoiding cameras’ glances,
The late nights out, my daughter’s shout -
“They’re DISCOS Mum, not dances”.
They must go back inside my box, each facet, every face,
For currently I’m seeing them through veils of shimmering lace.
The details filter through the holes - then quickly disappear,
I never know just where they go, though at least they are still there.
But now approaching vintage years with many more to live,
My memories more recent seem to pass right through a sieve
So I’ll add back in my walking club and lunch in handy inns,
Friendly hosts, hot buttered toast and several pink gins.
Another generation’s deeds now add to the confusion
So I’ll put those all back in again in all of their profusion.
I’m trusting that my brain can do an orderly repack
But, what happens, when my memory box, is lined with velvet, black?
