|
of Christopher Whitby |
||
 |
||
| WW1 War Grave and Former Casualty Clearing Station, Equancourt The stones seem to ruffle in the breeze But no vision comes. I really cannot grasp The enormity of what happened here. The fragments of old film, the books, Even the poetry do not prepare The heart or mind for standing here, As if in trespass, with no cataclysm Of my own to measure out this loss, this waste. It looks 'complete', from two VCs to died of wounds Two weeks after armistice, just turned eighteen. And yet there's more. In the visitors' book From nineteen eighty-five an entry reads: 'Dad, my children have helped me to find you At last.' |
||
|
|
||
|
||
| Admissions Too few times, I know, I say I love You, falling short in making my amends For things forgot and chances missed that prove It seems more bitter than I can intend. Too often you reply you don't believe Me, when at last I venture to express A heartfelt care, as if you can't conceive Of truth becoming words so loosely dressed. And when my fractured silence lies between Us on the bed, you lean across and feel The broken ends to see how far they've been Displaced, before you'll grant me time to heal. But I'm a man, so bred to think I must Have built on me an absolute trust |
||
|
|
||
| Copyright | ||