Bonjour mes amis.
The doors of the Fancy Pans Café are flung open offering a fabulous menu from - - - Lancashire and Yorkshire! Yes, the cuisine of France tempts discerning diners into every Cafe, Bistro and Restaurant, but given our location, today’s dishes have a northern charm. I hope you will also enjoy the poetry .
We are in a place called Sheffield Park; a tranquil and somewhat overwhelming corner of Somme countryside. It’s quite a walk from the main Serre Road. You can also get here by car if it isn’t too wet – you won’t want to get stuck in the Somme mud on rainy days though. The lane which takes you there is a dirt track across fields of crops. You will see a British Cemetery (Serre Road No 3) and just behind it is Sheffield Park. The path is lengthy and you never know, you might find some shrapnel, a bullet, a shell or other long buried relics of The Somme battlefields. (Best not to touch the shells though, they may be live).
Walking can have an effect on your appetite, so before we go on please enjoy our dishes of the day. Appropriately, Lancashire Hot-Pot
I hope you will like the poetry.
I approach Sheffield Park and see bricks,
A Memorial,
To the brave Pals from Accrington.
Stop.
Listen.
Red bricks.
Red Accrington bricks.
Travelled, as the men before them,
Here, to their final resting place.
I turn to the right,
There before me,
The Barnsley Pals
Honoured in stone.
Yorkshire lads,
Brave,
Slaughtered,
Remembered here.
Burnley,
Chorley,
'Where larks sing
and poppies grow,
they sleep in peace
for evermore'.
I walk down the gentle slope,
Scarred earth, now covered in verdant grass,
Pitted with deep craters,
Shell-holes where men lost their lives.
At the foot,
Railway Hollow.
Quiet simplicity,
Serene,
The most tranquil of places
I could ever imagine.
The stillness wraps around me,
I close my eyes,
I hear the guns which boomed
Nearly a hundred years ago.
John William Streets. John's body was not found for almost a year.
In memory and honour of these brave Pals, I have written a poem, which I would like to share with you .
Pals
In this lonely place
rows of white stone
mark the spot
where we once saw the dawn.
In this lonely place
a solitary oak
whispers its sadness
where we once carved our names.
In this lonely place
a flower blooms
bright as the sun
that once warmed our cold backs.
In this lonely place,
a breeze ripples grass
silent now
where once we sought sleep.
In this lonely place
a bird bravely flies
soaring above
where the Howitzers roared.
In this lonely place
shell-holes remain
empty craters
Armageddon we once faced.
In this lonely place
a rabbit passes by
on the same earth
that once oozed the smell of mortal fear.
In this lonely place
a whistle blew
over we went
where shells scorched Picardie.
In this lonely place
a battle raged
pals joined in conflict
divided ranks, into hell we ran.
In this lonely place
a tear was shed
destiny marked
with the vile taste of despair.
In this lonely place
the sun went down
mud took claim
where a Bergmann gun[1]spat our names.
We prayed
We cried
We lived
We died
In this lonely place.
THEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE
[1] Bergmann machine guns were not used on the Somme until 1918
Karen
There is sadness in this poem and I am certain that one cannot really get to the depths of despair that these soldiers featured in. So young, life cut off in a second. No future, no returning to loved one's, thousands losing their life or probably worse, limbs and arms shot away. Many thanks for featuring this poem and bringing to us the sacrifice these men gave. Sincerely Syd Spence
ReplyDeleteThank you Syd, ninety-five years since the first day of the Battle of the Somme, 1st July 1916. Those brave men had no choice, what an utter, tragic waste of life.
ReplyDelete