Old Soldiers Never Die (They Only Fade Away)
I'm not even sure how to start this post. I'm aware I could ramble on for hours, so I'm going to be careful not to do that. My grandfather, aged 94 and the last of my grandparents, died peacefully, at home and in the company of his family, on 9th June. There's so much say about him, not least because he was 94 and had done so much in his long life, but at the moment I think we're all just too sad to really think about things in any details. Certainly every memory that comes to my mind at the moment is quickly being obscured by tears.
When my granny died 6 years ago I wrote a poem a few days after her death. I'm not a good poet, so I feel I should caveat/apologise for what follows and in particular for anything that seems a little jarring or even trite. That isn't the intention (obviously). But as someone who writes, and who was until last week sending letters to my grandfather telling him, amongst other things, about my plays and my writing group, it just seemed a nice thing to do.
So...
"Old Soldiers Never Die"
You left it all behind. Those Durham mines
And blackened walls and dark satanic mills
For distant shores. At any rate it felt
A world away. And as the boat arrived
You said you thought you’d docked in Paradise.
A different life awaited, and though hard
Work sometimes you never felt regret.
You found true love, like something from a film
(At least that’s how it sounded when passed down
To us years on, how you opened the car
Door and your eyes met over suitcases
Or something. Well, I think that’s how it went.)
Then there were years of exile, soldiering,
Stories of japes and general "derring-do"
Til you returned to your now-battered home
To build a new life – literally – from scratch
Your own house, added to over the years
As we all came along and filled it up
With noise and laughter, arguing and tears
And instrumental practise, and with pride
You watched your clan expand, flourish and grow
In front of your eyes in your chosen land.
And now... well, now I don’t know what to say
(That’s not like me at all, you’d joke, I’m sure!)
It’s still too soon, and I can’t quite believe
That’s it. They say old soldiers never die
But only fade away. And so, farewell,
Old soldier; Grandfather; head of the clan.
And as we say goodbye your cherished home,
Sarnia Cherie, remembers a great man.
When my granny died 6 years ago I wrote a poem a few days after her death. I'm not a good poet, so I feel I should caveat/apologise for what follows and in particular for anything that seems a little jarring or even trite. That isn't the intention (obviously). But as someone who writes, and who was until last week sending letters to my grandfather telling him, amongst other things, about my plays and my writing group, it just seemed a nice thing to do.
So...
"Old Soldiers Never Die"
You left it all behind. Those Durham mines
And blackened walls and dark satanic mills
For distant shores. At any rate it felt
A world away. And as the boat arrived
You said you thought you’d docked in Paradise.
A different life awaited, and though hard
Work sometimes you never felt regret.
You found true love, like something from a film
(At least that’s how it sounded when passed down
To us years on, how you opened the car
Door and your eyes met over suitcases
Or something. Well, I think that’s how it went.)
Then there were years of exile, soldiering,
Stories of japes and general "derring-do"
Til you returned to your now-battered home
To build a new life – literally – from scratch
Your own house, added to over the years
As we all came along and filled it up
With noise and laughter, arguing and tears
And instrumental practise, and with pride
You watched your clan expand, flourish and grow
In front of your eyes in your chosen land.
And now... well, now I don’t know what to say
(That’s not like me at all, you’d joke, I’m sure!)
It’s still too soon, and I can’t quite believe
That’s it. They say old soldiers never die
But only fade away. And so, farewell,
Old soldier; Grandfather; head of the clan.
And as we say goodbye your cherished home,
Sarnia Cherie, remembers a great man.
posted by RLS at 10:22 pm
3 Comments:
I really like this, particularly the first stanza - it's really evocative. Thanks for sharing X
Beautiful...I could hear the drumroll as I read!
Thanks both for your lovely comments :-) (I have to say, I re-read the first bit about mines and Durham and thought: wait, from Durham pits to middle class in a mere generation? If they'd tried a bit harder, I could have been Kate Middleton! Lucky escape, I think.)
xxx
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