THE MARCH OF TIME
Posted: Wed Jun 05, 2013 9:13 am
THE MARCH OF TIME
I told them not to run. You know how kids are
they never listen to a word you say.
I often said ‘people get hurt, things broken
when you run round like loons all bloody day’
They’d heard the words so often they shrugged them off
and then disaster struck as well it might
they ran into the old clock in the hallway.
It fell, it broke – gave them an awful fright.
Well angry? Yes I was and boy they knew it
for they had been warned before, many times.
And now my Great Gramps clock was lying splintered
and doubtful now I’d ever hear it chime.
That clock was aged like me – with great patina
from hands that polished it over the years
and now a childish whim has seen it shattered
I cried and they were bloody angry tears.
I started picking up the shattered pieces
two recalcitrant boys bent down to help.
One picked up a small piece of faded paper.
He said ‘It’s yours Gran’. Horrid little whelp.
But sure enough the paper had my name on
and I opened it up most carefully
to see words curlicued and looped and written
on parchment, some of Great Gramp's poetry.
The day we wed my life was filled with joy love.
The day I left my heart was filled with pain.
Those war drums echo all around the world now
and I must go, but I’ll be back again
when Cootamundra wattle fills the valley,
when golden wheat is reaching for the sky.
I give to you sweetheart my love unstinting
and bless each day together till we die.
That poem bore a date -‘ twas nineteen eighteen,
he’d written it in March, the date was clear
the letter addressed to Mrs A. Coleson
a King George penny red stamp - franked with year.
And strange it was to hold it in my hand for,
must have been the last letter home he wrote.
He died just two months after I was born, killed
by an enemy bullet in the throat.
They named me for my great gran. I’m Amelia.
This clock the boys have broken it was hers.
Perhaps the clock got broken for a reason
without it my Great Gramp's voice wasn’t heard.
I wondered had she ever read the letter?
I’d take it with me when I went to see
her grave tomorrow – first thing in the morning.
She rests now ‘neath a single Lone Pine Tree.
Maureen Clifford © 06/13
I told them not to run. You know how kids are
they never listen to a word you say.
I often said ‘people get hurt, things broken
when you run round like loons all bloody day’
They’d heard the words so often they shrugged them off
and then disaster struck as well it might
they ran into the old clock in the hallway.
It fell, it broke – gave them an awful fright.
Well angry? Yes I was and boy they knew it
for they had been warned before, many times.
And now my Great Gramps clock was lying splintered
and doubtful now I’d ever hear it chime.
That clock was aged like me – with great patina
from hands that polished it over the years
and now a childish whim has seen it shattered
I cried and they were bloody angry tears.
I started picking up the shattered pieces
two recalcitrant boys bent down to help.
One picked up a small piece of faded paper.
He said ‘It’s yours Gran’. Horrid little whelp.
But sure enough the paper had my name on
and I opened it up most carefully
to see words curlicued and looped and written
on parchment, some of Great Gramp's poetry.
The day we wed my life was filled with joy love.
The day I left my heart was filled with pain.
Those war drums echo all around the world now
and I must go, but I’ll be back again
when Cootamundra wattle fills the valley,
when golden wheat is reaching for the sky.
I give to you sweetheart my love unstinting
and bless each day together till we die.
That poem bore a date -‘ twas nineteen eighteen,
he’d written it in March, the date was clear
the letter addressed to Mrs A. Coleson
a King George penny red stamp - franked with year.
And strange it was to hold it in my hand for,
must have been the last letter home he wrote.
He died just two months after I was born, killed
by an enemy bullet in the throat.
They named me for my great gran. I’m Amelia.
This clock the boys have broken it was hers.
Perhaps the clock got broken for a reason
without it my Great Gramp's voice wasn’t heard.
I wondered had she ever read the letter?
I’d take it with me when I went to see
her grave tomorrow – first thing in the morning.
She rests now ‘neath a single Lone Pine Tree.
Maureen Clifford © 06/13
Thank you