Pembroke Dock Creative Writing Group<>
A Scrap of Local History Green Butterfly (posted 22.08.06) FROM THE CORNER OF MY EYE (Posted 28.11.06)
The Couple (posted 07.08.06) The Nod (posted 22.08.06) THE STILLNESS OF WAR (Posted 28.11.06)
Shalom, Salaam (posted 07.08.06) The Forecast (posted 31.10.06) The would-be monk. (Posted 28.11.06)
The Artist (posted 07/08/06) Private Caldicott R.I.P. (posted 31.10.06) A Romance by Chance (Posted 19.12.06)
Coronation Centre THEY BUILT A RAILWAY (posted 04.11.06) First Sight (Posted 26.01.07)
The Yew Tree.  Bedouin Tent ( Updated 28.11.06) A Hymn to Glass (Posted 26.01.07)
February 1889 SPITFIRE ( Posted 20.11.06) Liberation (Posted 26.01.07)
The Artist (Posted 09.02.06) FLIRTATION  ( Posted 20.11.06) Stillness (Posted 26.01.07)
Outside the Kitchen Door (Posted 09.02.06) DRUMMER BOY ( Posted 20.11.06) Separate Tables Posted 03.03.2007)
The Icon Maker (Posted 15.02.06) REALITY ( Posted 20.11.06) Water-lilies. Posted 03.03.2007)
A Post Card (Two)  (Posted 27.02.06) Crotchets (Posted 28.11.06)  
A Post Card (One) (Posted 27.02.06) THE STILLNESS OF WAR (Posted 28.11.06)  
A Romance by Chance ( A short story)

The Meeting

The air was unduly cold and large snow flakes fell vertically on that windless late
afternoon. Jack Story clutched the scarf about him but not before several flakes
melted and ran down his neck The cold seemed to seep through him; he wished he'd
Worn his overcoat rather than the raincoat as he hurriedly made his way from the taxi
into the Oxford Street store. Once through the door the atmosphere changed, his face
tingled with the warmth, and gaily-lit Christmas decorations altered a shopper's winter
attitude. Continues..........................................................

to read the rest of this story click here to download as a pdf file
 


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First Sight
By Josephine Hammond

A glimpse, a flash of dark curls and laughter
Seen out of the corner of his eve.
She caught his glance across the room,
Noticed the gleam in his gaze
He saw the kiss perched on her pouting lips
Waiting to be claimed, and was hers


It rained shrapnel all day, a glancing blow
Seen out of the corner of his eye
But too late. He never knew, they said,
He never knew. It was too quick,
They said. There was no pain.
Not for him, she replied, bowing her head.

 

 A Hymn to Glass
By Josephine Hammond

Sand, water and fire attend its birth.
Crystalline,
It sparkles like a diamond
Or is dull as stone.
Smooth as a sea-washed pebble
Or rough as lumpy rock.
Pure, transparent clarity,
Or darkly opaque.
Bullet-proof tough, or brittle enough
To shatter at a sound.
Miracle matter from the hand of man,
It helps the purblind see
And splits atoms of light.
Its curves reveal a particle on a microbe,
Yet show us mountains on the moon,
Or the birth of the farthest star.
Liberation
By Josephine Hammond

A man in pearl grey Armani
Stands up in a tower in the west,
Fingers the shell-pink shaft of silk bissecting his chest,
Sips from a cup,
Then speaks.
A hush descends on the vast
Artificially cooled chamber
Where his words are heard.
Protection, liberation, democratisation.
He draws his conclusion.
Then sits
Wiping light beads of moisture
Prom his brow.


Half a world away
And half an hour later
Ahmed tills the eternal soil
Dry as dust.
Shalwar trousers, loose shirt, grubby with dirt and sweat.
He pauses to wipe rivulets
Prom his brow.
Bombers roar through the searing sky,
Unleashing their fatal cargo.
He shakes his fist skywards,
Shouts impotently
Is this your democracy,
Your liberation?
His words burn in the unflinching sun
His feet leave no trace in the wind-blown sand.

 Stillness
By Josephine Hammond

Heron-like he stands on the bank
Every fibre of flesh and cloth
Focused, motionless.
His kohl-rimmed eyes stare
Unseeing, at the boat-teeming Thames
Not one mascara'd lash flutters.
Cold winds brush his dead white cheeks
Where pencilled tears stay poised to drip.
Not a tremor disturbs his painted pallor.
Around him, spinning traffic, jostling crowds
Children shouting, hurling pebbles,
Yet no muscle flickers.
His is the hush of me hunter who
Stills his heart to shoot more truly,
The quiet of the cat about to pounce,
And the torpor of the hunted whose
Very breath betrays him.
In a sudden, silent swift gesture
He leans, scoops up his prey
Of hatted coins, heads home for supper.

 

 

 

 
Crotchets

Black crows are crotchets
on the stave of a farmer's fence.

Two rise suddenly into the sky, and the music
changes, a different composition.

Quavers huddle in their nests,
protest, high-pitched, in hungry discord.

Fields make a green song of flats,
Presceli peaks provide the sharps.

A foaming waterfall sings in Bass,
and the entire valley dances with sound.

Rhoda Hodes 2006		 THE STILLNESS OF WAR

Unbearable, the noise of gun-fire
Spraying death over the poppy-fields.
Battle ground of the young and brave.
Adrenalin fuelled, he fought his fear,
Clogging mud, drags him down.
Ram-filled trenches
Stench and hungry rats.
Christmas Day, gunfire faded.
Uncertain truce
Through the stillness came singing
Heard with one voice, 'Stille Nachf
For many, the stillness was eternal.

Gwen Anderson
FROM THE CORNER OF MY EYE

From the comer of my eye
I see her.
The crotchety one.
Needles and teeth click in unison.
Shawl wrapped, hogging the fire.
Grumbling and coughing.
From the comer of my eye
I watch her.
Is she comfortable?
The fire too hot?
Perhaps a drink?
Time for her pills?
From the comer of my eye
I see her.
Hands down, dozing.
She stirs, disturbed and grumpy.
A baleful look, then
Allows her teeth to click and drop
Click and drop.

Gwen Andersen.		 STILLNESS

Heron-like he stands on the bank
Every fibre of flesh and cloth
Focused, motionless.
His kohl-rimmed eyes stare
Unseeing, at the boat-teeming river
Not one mascara'd lash flutters.
Cold winds brush his dead white cheeks
Where pencilled tears stay poised to drip.
Not a tremor disturbs his painted pallor.
Around him, spinning traffic, jostling crowds
Children shouting, hurling pebbles,
Yet no muscle flickers.
His is the hush of the hunter who
Stills his heart to shoot more truly,
The quiet of the cat about to pounce,
And the torpor of the hunted whose
Very breath betrays him.

In a sudden, silent swift gesture
He leans, scoops up his prey
Of hatted coins, heads home for supper.

Josephine Hammond

Top of Page

The would-be monk.

I dreamt as a child of what I'd be
in my grown-up ideal life,
had visions of myself as monk -
ignoring my gender as if it didn't matter.
A simple cell would be my nest, small bed white-covered,
wooden table and chair in comer,
no material needs to take my life,
no pressure to conform to boredom, routine.
Perhaps a fresco on the wall,
a bowl to wash in, small window letting in Tuscan sun.
I saw myself sitting peaceful, unhurried;
my work to produce page by page
an iluminated manuscript -
time flowing sweetly -
maybe a lifetime to complete this lasting beauty.
Sometime I would have to think of God
and solve that primary problem if I could.
Not practical, I easily pushed the thought away.
I would paint first letters, wonderful capitals,
small scenes of saints, men working in fields,
surrounding countryside with horses,
bright blue for the Virgin's cloak, and warm reds,
fill the background in with gold leaf.
Around the page I'd run
Wide borders of country flowers,
Birds, rabbits, so complex I wondered at my skill.
And then I saw Florence, had no further search.
The convent of San Marco was where I'd be,
the simplicity of a Fra Angelico 'Annunciation'
an added gift from the 'angelic friar,' whose work I love.
And when concentration and weary eyes demand
I'd walk the silent cloisters, evening cool,
where cypress and jasmine give their scent as gift,
and birds sit on the carved stone bath.
I would be alone, not lonely, at peace, quiet,
leaving behind a legacy of beauty; solitary life
broken only by communal prayer, singing, simple food,
oranges picked from the garden, young peas.
My luxury a single flower in a green bottle.
Those who know me now might laugh,
but sometimes weary with the world
I yearn for it still.

Rhoda Hodes 2006
 		 Water-lilies.

His garden inspired the immortal one
to splash the colours till light had gone,
to paint where blurred confusions of water start,
deep shadows, and mirrors of quick light dart -
where every feeling fool that passes
sees the start of pool, the end of grasses.

Flat plates of leaf that float, that surface drift,
soft pads for balancing fireflies swift,
and cups of pointed petals hold the light,
the waxy gradations of cream and white -
interrupt the goblets of rose wine,
some yellow-stamened, some just a splash of paint define.

Madame Monet grey bunned, now mellow,
opens shutters - moves among china, blue and yellow.
kaleidoscopic pools have no beginning and no end,
over them the trailing willows blow and bend.
A green wooden bridge, Wistaria hung, lets us cross to where
his canvas colours are caressed by garden air.

Rhoda Hodes 07
 

Top of Page

Bedouin Tent UPDATE

Black, dark as desert night,
black, a hundred goatskins sewn,
make a Bedouin home on blowing sand.
Thousands of years like this -
the wandering Arabs look for meagre
pastures - cyclamen carpeted in Spring,
always the sneering camels near.
A boy with nutmeg skin,
A boy with stick chases
goats in the middle of nowhere,
as they have always done.
A single acacia tries to throw some shade,
but the leaves make only spots
of shadow on the earth, like raindrops.
They kneel on fringed rugs,
they kneel to pray towards the east,
and then invite us in,
to rest on carpets of rough colour.
Bright flags the nomads shake, shake
the sand away, each time they wander
further into the desert quiet.
We listen to tales of their people,
we understand stories as best we can,
Arabic, Hebrew; gesticulating hands
throw shadows around the tent like puppets.
Men draw their woven cloaks
of goatskin hair around their shoulders;
anticipating the desert- cold night.
Sun sets quickly behind hills,
sun sets, and for a few moments the
sky is green. A woman heats dark, sweet
coffee in a copper Tmjan', and pours.
A circular honeycomb rises pale in the sky,
dripping added sweetness on the 'baklawa'
that we eat with sticky fingers - and
then lick them clean.

Rhoda Hodes. 06		 DRUMMER BOY

Eyes glazed, mouths dry, by glory blindly beckoned,
cheeks wet with tears we boys set forth.
Oh! It was glory boys but the day we did not win.
In woods and meadows we should be.
Not pawned today for fool's victory -
Two thousand grains of earth! What triumph this?

Is this their promised bright tomorrow?
My bonny boys as fresh mown hay, as leaves, as petals lay.
In outraged earth their rattling drums roll silent, whimpering.
The morning sun too false, dissembles, mocks our wounds,
deceives the hurting darkness. It's glare, a trickster, struts my eyes
and stench of blood chokes out my lungs.

All lifes regrets mists close about me, wraithed in silk - your gown of blue.
Stood here beside me? Mother is that you? Are you come to wish me well?
I feel your touch, warm hand in mine, my weary head soft cradled.
Your whispered lips caressing calm - all horror past; I am a child once more.
Life is quick and bright, you say? Brief as candle's glow,
its quiet end a breath away.

Shirley Saunders
 FLIRTATION


Flirtation is a season, of longing and of loss. A space of time, of
sweetness, love.A crossroads in a moment gone, delicious, brief,
not meant to last. A glow when cold, a secret smile, a thrill to recall
when memory fades and wipes the slate of name and place.

Shirley Saunders



 

Top of Page

REALITY
That image I see beckoning me. Wheedling, cursing,
an enemy acknowledged - a vague recognition.
His mask, deep rivered beds, cracked dry by the sun; his face,
by salt winds, perished and whittled.

To comfort they say, once laughter passed by -
life has been lived - each line tells a story!
Mirror, mirror, that face on your face was yesterday young,
so, where did I go while I thought I was sleeping?

Why didn't you warn he would visit so soon?
The Devil's astride and gallops towards me.
His raven attends him, dark wings brush my shoulder.
You are no friend of mine, for Friend I know you - you are time.

Shirley Saunders		 SPITFIRE
Why did the world not cease it's turn and quiet, hear his prayers.
How could the blackbird sing - the apples sweeten on the tree?
In stinking clouds a million poppies choke the sun.
Dark flakes drain appled sweetness, all summer's work undone.
Barley beads, sweat and charred lie welded with his hands.
How could earth not pause nor care to weep
when still from golden throat on topmost branch, brown
blackbird in defiance sings.

Shirley Saunders

 THEY BUILT A RAILWAY
Paid for with their lives
some survived
for ever scarred
in body and mind.
Suffering
disease and malnutrition
exploited and beaten
they prayed for freedom.
The dead do not cry
they no longer suffer
though kin may mourn
memories may fade with time.
Let us not forget
those Japanese prisoners
who gave their yesterdays
for our freedom
'and our to-days'.

David LI. Jones Creative Writers

Top of Page

 The Forecast
I wake
I always wake for the Shipping Forecast
and try to concentrate until, starting from the North sea
along the Channel, up through the Western approaches
it arrives at Lundy's homely home waters
and even here, in the far west, sometimes wild
often wet they promise fair weather
Then, The News
Never good
Earthquakes
Tempests
Hurricanes all, acts of God
But what of the acts of men?
War
death and destruction
whole peoples, the poor, always the poor
herded together sick and starving
The passionate young, persuaded
to kill themselves and, all around
lambs sacrificed for other men's perversions
Our youth drugged, drunk, shot and stabbed
on the streets of our towns
And school children
children of the meek who
we were promised
would inherit the Earth
slaughtered by a mad man
I rage
an old man's useless rage
this pounding in my chest
this thunder in my ears
perhaps, not what it seems
but the hoof-beat of horsemen
soon to overrun us all.		 Private Caldicott R.I.P.

As a toddler I remember sitting on his knee while he struggled to entertain me by singing old WW1 songs. He wasn't fit enough to join the other men working on the hay but on that particular afternoon he was given the job of looking and
entertaining me. At the time I was approaching my fourth birthday. It is a sad memory of a broken crippled WW1 mustard gas victim, a man that I hardly knew but have never forgotten.

Sitting on his bony knee
he sang old soldier's songs
while whole men
harvested the hay
on that hot June day.
Gasping
struggling to breathe
with his gas burnt lungs
softly he sang ....
'It's a long way to Tipperary,
it's a long way to go.......'
The memory of Private Caldicott
the gassed suffering soldier
remains forever
in the mind of that boy
who is now an old man
Sweetly he sang
as whole men toiled
in that June sun.
Through the horror of war
he died a young man.
D.L.J.

The Couple
(A painting by Pablo Picasso)

Childless, in her ninetieth year
Sarah laughed at God when
He said she would bear a son
but, it is written, laughter gave
way to childbirth's bittersweet.

Motherhood late, fiercely
awakened, insisted Abraham
put aside Ishmael, his son
born of Hagar the slave woman

Then God, only He knows why,
put these aged parents
to the cruellest of tests
that they give back Isaac
their son, so long in coming
So loved.

She who had laughed at God
railed at Him, argued with Him
pleaded with Him.
God was deaf to her.

With long, despondent fingers
like the fringes of a prayer shawl
draping Abraham's shoulders
bowed beneath the weight
of God's unthinkable demand
she agonised with him
her lips set tight against the
scream, the cry of Everywoman,
bereft, down all the ages..

Colin Gerlach.

God said: Abraham, take your son Isaac and offer Him as a burnt offering.
(Genesis 22)

 THE NOD.

By Gwen Anderson.

I asked the question
Often asked
To lowered heads.
There was no reply.
There never is.
I asked again,
Imperative that I should know.
Unsatisfied, repeated.
He raised his eyes
And looked at me
Smiled, and almost imperceptibly
Nodded.
 

Separate Tables
George Rees
Into their constrained conversation clink
Platitudes like the ice-cubes in their drink.
'There's always someone who's worse off than you.'
'We ought to count our blessings.' 'That's so true.'
What loosed these braying cliches from their stable
Were furtive glances at a neighbouring table
Where hands flew up like birds cutting
Words out of the silent air, dipping,
Gliding, weaving, making the hands sing.
The others said, 'A pitiable state,
It's tragic when you can't communicate. '

 

Top of Page

THE ARTIST

We say farewell to him today,
We crows of mourning
That sing with lusty voices choked,
On cold stones, under white arches of prayer.
Sing of Jerusalem and pleasant pastures green,
And being shepherd - led by still waters
And of those like him who are generous and kind.

He has left us so many canvas images that speak of Wales
Translating with love the landscape into paint.
In front of whitewashed cottages, fences and gates hang perilous,
Paths well-worn by farmer's boots;
Workers cutting hay with scythes,
Ponies on massive cliffs above the shining seas,
And gorse,the stabbing gorse,
That spills it's golden blood on the land.
Whatever the image, it speaks of his spirit.
And speaking of the spirit who can forget his churches-
Often crumbling, often vine- covered stones
That stand soft-coloured and luminous
Amid the silent trees at prayer.
We say the usual things we say about good men
And speed him on his way.
I hope that watercolours and rough paper await him.

Rhoda Hodes 06

 Shalom, Salaam
The stuttering guns of almost-war
come once again, and chase
their nightmare missiles back and fore,
blow the black wind, the dust, the fear
over parched hills we both love.
Stealthy the metal animals crawl
up and down, over rocks and walls, creeping towards death.

Everywhere thorns under foot wait for their circles
to pierce dark foreheads,
as Jew and Arab prepare to crucify each other.
In a dialogue through bombing
we speak with the passionate voice of easy hate.
We who have the tongues of God
cannot find words of tolerance, let alone the voice of love.

We are denied our sliver of earth
as they crowd us to the sea.
We are the same, we have not found the generous gesture
that will bind us to them with garlands of olive leaves
and sheaves of poppies from the field,
that will give a depth of water to all -
that will never be eradicated, and be the sky's shadow.

We maim each other's children,so dear to each of us,
and cannot find the way to stop.
Stone walls of the innocent fall with those of the guilty
and do not call for the names of children before they are
pinned beneath rubble in their beds.
On lovely Haifa's gentle slopes
they hide below the ground - and wait.

Rhoda Hodes
The Icon Maker
By the measure of another's life
One who toiled the length of every day
Married
Fathered sons and daughters
Nurtured and nourished them
Saw them grow in grace and strength
Set them on the path of right living

My life has been but nothing
Days have run
Seasons and years have run
While I worked wood
Layered gypsum
Mixed coloured clay with yolk of egg
Strained hand and eye
Fixed images of saints
Looked deep into their eyes
And they, into mine
Those of a monk, grown old, grown dry
Empty as the shells around his feet.
 Colin. Gerlach.
 
Green Butterfly

Last time, it was us
We with almond eyes and sallow skin
Nervous men
Harryied us, hurried us from our homes
Neighbours watched
None protested
Late
I emerged in bridal spledour
Shining, black hair piled high
In my wedding robe, the green kimono
'Madam Butterfly' someone sneered
They caged us in some desert place
My child was born
My 'Pinker-ton' died
Now, an old Japanese woman
In a faded green kimono
I whisper to women veiled in black
'This will pass
Last time it was us'.

Colin Gerlach.

Top of Page

CORONATION CENTRE

I'm the grandest of ladies that Meyrick Street's known
and over a hundred years old
though my paint may have peeled and there's damp in my bones
I'm a treasure (or so I've been told).
I was born here you know, back in 1904
town's children flocked round just to see,
plus their teachers, the Mayor and the Temperance Band,
reception especially for me.
For their efforts they each got a round tin of chocolate
which bore a portrait of the King
then medals were given and speeches delivered
While children sat round in a ring.
You can tell from this tale that they thought well of me,
of tall handsome stature (they said)
imposing, well-built and of good disposition
an asset, the finest, well-bred.
You see they were trusting their children's well-being
to me; think I managed all right,
dear thoughts of those children who came through my doorway
are with me by day and by night.
Old ladies have memories and I'm no exception
recalling that grand 'Golden Age'
when audiences came from all over the county
to see my productions on stage.
They were wonderful times but I'm still going strong
and hope to for many more years.
My children grown-up now but still I can show them
new practices, starting right here.

Olive Davies		 The Yew Tree.

I saw each cortege come
Heard marching boots,
Muffled drum
The farewell fusillade,
Saw comrade set aside his spade
Mourners blink away a tear
And grieve for lives, so short
So sweet, so dearly bought
So vainly lying here
I heard the bugles fade
Brave men rest among my roots
Years, unspent, scattered in my shade
C.G.

FEB 1889

A day like any other, shawled against the spray.
The women with their shopping bags, on this their market day.
Bonnets nodded to their friends, they smile and take their seats.
Boarding the familiar boat, as they did every week.
A day like any other, the oars flashed to and fro,
From Pennar Ridge to Bentlass, they sat in stoic row.
And chatted there, as old friends do, they could not realize,
The two dogs growling in the boat, would cause it to capsize.
The dogs began their fighting around the women's' feet
They stood up and with lifted skirts began to climb the seats.
"Sit down - sit down! F John Jones did yell as water rilled the boat,
And overboard they screamed and fell. Only the shawls did float.
Nine souls were lost that fateful day in Eighteen Eighty Nine.
And many a tear rolled down the cheeks of those who were left behind.
Many a son or daughter wept, and many a husband sighed,
For those who drowned on market day, the whole community cried.

Owen Anderson.

Top of Page

A Scrap of Local History

When I read it in the paper,
My eyes filled up with tears.
They were going to pull The Grand' down,
It had been closed for years.
The box office was all boxed in
Where we used to stand to pay,
Vandalised and knocked about,
'The Grand' had had its day.
Many times we caught the bus
And every time we knew
When we hurried into Dimond Street
That we would have to queue.
Right past Taylor's Hardware shop
It stretched if the film was good.
We queued in sun and queued in rain,
Hours it seemed we stood.
When at last we reached the door
And shuffled up in line,
"Standing only," came her cry
As she snatched our one-and-nine.
We propped ourselves against the walls
In straggly, shifting rows,
An usherette with flashing torch
Kept treading on our toes.
Ester Williams dived and swam,
Tarzan swung from tree to tree.
Some films were sad and made you cry,
Most ended happily.
 

We laughed or wept as film decreed,
Sobbed or shook with mirth.
You may be sure by ten o'clock
We had had our money's worth.
When the National Anthem started,
With the maximum of fuss,
Seats were all tipped smartly back
In the rush for Silcox' bus
if
By the time we reached the pavement
The 'decker had long gone
Then Ernie James's' Pioneer
Rolled up and crammed us on.
The arrival of our Ernie
Meant relief for aching feet
But by the time we all pushed on
There were four to every seat.
So we stood again on the old blue bus
Like sardines, packed in tight,
Warned that if we saw a policemen
To crouch down out of sight.
A scrap of local history
Has vanished, gone for good.
Just a piece of empty ground
Where once our cinema stood.
When demolition experts
Moved in to clear the land,
I remembered all the grand times
We had in the old 'Grand'
  'The Grand' cinema was located at the bottom of lower Meyrick Street. Part of the St. Govan's Centre
now occupies the site.
Silcox had a fleet of red double decker buses, some with cane seats. Ernie James owned and drove a
blue, single decker bus, The Pioneer. Ernie never left anyone behind at a bus stop no matter how full
the bus was. We all loved Ernie - he had a ventriloquist doll and used to take part in local concerts.

Top of Page
 THE ARTIST

In loving memory of Ken Cooper
We say farewell to him today,
We crows of mourning
That sing with lusty voices choked,
On cold stones, under white arches of prayer.
Sing of Jerusalem and pleasant pastures green,
And being shepherd - led by still waters
And of those like him who are generous and kind.

He has left us so many canvas images that speak of Wales
Translating with love the landscape into paint.
In front of whitewashed cottages, fences and gates hang perilous,
Paths well-worm by farmers* boots;
Workers cutting hay with scythes,
Ponies on massive cliffs above the shining seas,
And gorse, the stabbing gorse,
That spills its golden blood on the land.

Whatever the image, it speaks of his spirit
And speaking of the spirit who can forget his churches -
Often crumbling, often vine-covered stones
That stand soft-coloured and luminous^
Amid the silent trees at prayer.
We say the usual things we say about good men
And speed him on his way.
I hope that watercolours and rough paper

Rhoda Hodes		 Outside the Kitchen Door

Saw a mouse
Well not quite, no
What I saw was a blur
Where it had been
A millisecond ago
And a plant, winter-dried
Alive with mouse busy-ness
Saw, on the TV
DNA's double helix
Twist in slo-mo pirouette
Just a tiny difference
Some say
Between the mouse
And me
The minutest quirk
Has me standing over head
While, beneath my feet
Its hard at work.

Colin. Gerlach.

Top of Page

Postcard.

  

Postcard
Military Cemetery
Pembroke Dock
27th.April 2005

George,
You and I have stood in other lands where men had fallen, in their thousands. White
head-stoned, they are -at ease' in inch-perfect rows on shaven lawns. Precise places where
the words 'cemetery' and 'symmetry' seemed interchangeable.
But, here, in this overlooked corner of the far west, this final resting place of the brave, feels
like a village churchyard. Though the names, those that have not withered, like their young
lives, tell of far-off places. On this soft morning their weathered memorials stand ankle-deep
amongst daisies and celendines and bluebells. I see, soon to be obscured by the
lengthening grass, an inscription Thy Will Be Done'. Humph!.
C.		 Pembroke Dock
10th. July 1972.

An end-of-somwhere kind of place.Quiet streets. A Dockyard, surely, once its heart, weed-
grown, seed-blown. The heart no longer beats.
Waist-deep, in the evening tide, a bearded baptist stood, the lowering sun haloing his hair.
He called all who would commit, first to the cold water then, to Christ.There, in his demi-
Jordan, the Haven, a single letter stood between him and Heaven.
 

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