I wrote this poem after a recent walk with a local writing group around St Dogmaels, a lovely riverside village not far from where I live. I was struck by the stones around the village, on the banks of the river, at the mill, in the graveyard, and the Abbey ruins -- all of them part of the lives of all who live, or have ever lived there. For me, these stones that we live with daily are as much a part of remembrance as the village war memorial.
All the names in the poem are recorded on that memorial for the years 1914-1918.
Memorial stones
Did
they play together as boys,
diving
and dipping in fantasy battles
among
headstones in the churchyard,
sniping
with make-believe rifles.
Bang
bang. Who died first?
Craig,
Davies, Dunstan or Evans
Did
they spin flat pebbles over rippling water
there
by the Degwel stream
where
the Teifi bends wide towards the sea.
Who
scored most hits?
Gibbons,
Green, Griffiths, Harper
Did
they race along muddy banks,
boots
sucked into silt
(who
got stuck, who pulled him out?)
Isaac,
James, Jenkins, John
At
the Blessing Stone did they stand atop
to
play the shouting game,
hear
the magic echo come straight back
across
brown water. Whose cry was loudest?
Jones,
Ladd, Lloyd, McFadden
Did
they help each other clamber over
crumbling
Abbey walls
to
play their throwing games,
chucking
ancient rocks to the ground.
Who
hit most targets?
Morris,
Owen, Niles, Phillips
Did
they shoot pebbles from catapults
at
rats running for the drains.
Who
bagged most tails?
Pope,
Protheroe, Rees, Richards
As
they leant against the old millstones
in
the setting sun
feeling
the furrows and lands
rough
against their palms,
their
too-soft hands,
did
they idly wonder about war,
predict
possible postings.
Roberts,
Thomas, Williams
Did
they walk with their girls
on
their last nights at home,
hide
behind ruined walls,
make
heartfelt trysts,
promises
of sweet futures
