My father's first cousin Patrick went to war in 1914. The theatre of desperation that was Gallipoli destroyed his mind. He was returned to a small town in Ireland to be cared for by his devoted sister. I'd go to see him with my father when I was a small child. Patrick would smile and call out, 'Sadie make tea for Marie,' She'd do so and bring a little tray for me with a mug of milky tea and fairy cakes she'd made. Pat would have his tray too and we'd sit there looking at each other, smiling and chattering, neither knowing what the other was saying. Before Sadie and my father went into the parlour for their tea she'd look in at us and say to him, 'you know that child is a caution. I'd swear she knows what he's saying.
Pat's room had a long window overlooking the back garden. He always sat in a wing back chair with a plaid rug covering his knees. Sadie had a fire lighting for Pat from the time she got him downstairs each afternoon. Rubbing his hands together he'd hold them close to the heat. Sometimes he'd count and I'd join in --1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, and on reaching 10 we'd stand, clap our hands, and shout ZERO! I've no idea what all this meant and I didn't know what he spoke to me about either. When I told him stories about my dolls he'd smile. When I asked him why he dribbled like a baby he also smiled. I loved Pat when I was little and now I love him for the sacrifice he made.
I wrote a poem once where I ask him what he saw as he looked through the window into the garden or when he watched the flickering flames. I remembered Sadie too. In the poem she represents all wives, mothers fiancés, sisters -- all women and families whose menfolk were broken in mind and body in the enormous tragedies of war.
Upon A Pure White Horse
Looking beyond that misted pane of glass
Along the garden path, to low and broken walls,
Where stones stumble onto withered grass.
What do you see?
Sloe hedges, clumped with berries blackish blue.
And fallow fields of clay, which cling to tortured trees,
now rooted deep, where clotted poppies grow.
What do you see?
Searching, your limpid fingers claw for heat,
Around metallic grate,
Where logs asunder burst, recoil, seared, scorched and dreaded war drums beat!
What do you feel?
Flames, rushing into skies, convulsing low,
To rot in fetid fumes, the bones of splintered men.
Who cradled softly, lie beneath white crosses, row on row!
What do you feel?
She strokes your head, the hair all silvered -- thin.
Hopes fled, your star extinct.
As mirthless laughter ebbs, decanting warm dribble into hollow chin?
What do you know?
Gone! You ride upon a snow white horse.
And yet, lone vigil she defends.
Life's metronome upset, you are her symphony unfinished.
Lest we forget.
Lest we forget.
Pat's room had a long window overlooking the back garden. He always sat in a wing back chair with a plaid rug covering his knees. Sadie had a fire lighting for Pat from the time she got him downstairs each afternoon. Rubbing his hands together he'd hold them close to the heat. Sometimes he'd count and I'd join in --1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, and on reaching 10 we'd stand, clap our hands, and shout ZERO! I've no idea what all this meant and I didn't know what he spoke to me about either. When I told him stories about my dolls he'd smile. When I asked him why he dribbled like a baby he also smiled. I loved Pat when I was little and now I love him for the sacrifice he made.
I wrote a poem once where I ask him what he saw as he looked through the window into the garden or when he watched the flickering flames. I remembered Sadie too. In the poem she represents all wives, mothers fiancés, sisters -- all women and families whose menfolk were broken in mind and body in the enormous tragedies of war.
Upon A Pure White Horse
Looking beyond that misted pane of glass
Along the garden path, to low and broken walls,
Where stones stumble onto withered grass.
What do you see?
Sloe hedges, clumped with berries blackish blue.
And fallow fields of clay, which cling to tortured trees,
now rooted deep, where clotted poppies grow.
What do you see?
Searching, your limpid fingers claw for heat,
Around metallic grate,
Where logs asunder burst, recoil, seared, scorched and dreaded war drums beat!
What do you feel?
Flames, rushing into skies, convulsing low,
To rot in fetid fumes, the bones of splintered men.
Who cradled softly, lie beneath white crosses, row on row!
What do you feel?
She strokes your head, the hair all silvered -- thin.
Hopes fled, your star extinct.
As mirthless laughter ebbs, decanting warm dribble into hollow chin?
What do you know?
Gone! You ride upon a snow white horse.
And yet, lone vigil she defends.
Life's metronome upset, you are her symphony unfinished.
Lest we forget.
Lest we forget.
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