Somewhere, everywhere
In Northern France,
A clear, November morning
Surrenders to a pall
Of fog and drizzle.
A slim, dark haired woman
Marches her toddler daughter
Around a muddy field filled
With flowers and masonry.
They clasp each other’s hands,
As much in uncertainty and fear
As for protection against the chill.
Occasionally, the child
Cannot contain her curiosity,
And skips off in the direction
Of a prettily pruned rosebush,
While her mother commands her,
Quietly, to return to her side.
This is no casual Sunday stroll –
Ten thousand of the slain lie here,
Each simple white slab gives
Details of name, regiment and rank,
And most revealing of all,
Date and age of premature passing.
One division of this congested spot
Commemorates a group of lads
From a single Kentish village;
Seeming to stand apart from the rest,
As steadfast companions in death
As they would have been in life.
I grapple with grief and gratitude,
The first for lost and wasted lives
And the other for being granted
The peace to pay my respects today.
Wrapped in my turbulent thoughts,
I have forgotten about my
Fellow pilgrims to this place;
I turn to scan the silent cemetery
For the mother and her innocent child;
But they have slipped soundlessly away.
What might have been their story?
Were they, perhaps, descendants of a
Teenage tommy and a local girl?
What other reason might have
Brought them to this grim, dark space?
I hope they have by now returned
To a warm and welcoming home,
An ordinary everyday pleasure
Denied to all those young men
Still dutifully standing to attention
Across this sad and solemn scene.
Tony Quarrington 