Recorded in sepia and framed in leather,
a good looking man,
black ink right hand bottom corner,
Nineteen fourteen,

I wonder, his name, his age, did he return
or was blood spilled
on some foreign field,

Wife and children at home?

He looks so young
in his uniform,
and now just a faded photograph
at the top of this box,

“Lot two seventy three”

Sifting through mementos,
his medals, his army pay book
letters to his wife, and look!
the telegram “Killed In Action”

Questions answered,

He had a name,
he´d lived and loved, and died,
and now they bid him goodbye;

A lonely life for his widowed wife,
this "lot" her grief and pain,
and now at last, together again.

There is an emptiness that can´t be filled
and sadness envelopes the heart,
the loss of one so dear to us
is tearing all apart.

But strength is found in memories
and forever they will last,
for me it was the garden wall
he built with bricks and broken glass.

I´ll not forget his smile that day
his grin was ear to ear,
proud he was of the wall he´d built...
"Here, Pete come and look out here".

He told me all there was to know
about this marvelous construction,
with bottle bottoms, green blue and brown
"And Pete, I never had instuctions".

We stood together side by side
in the warnth of the summers end,
that´s the moment I´ll remember
and I was proud to call him friend.


(Remembering JB)

There´s not a lot
that I can do,
feel useless in
this situation,
maybe offer help
and understanding,
comfort with
soft spoken words
of sympathy
and caring.

I´ll quietly go
and make you tea,
whilst healing time
I know can do
a better job than me,
but know I,m here
and know I care
and know you´re not alone,
there´s not a lot
that I can do...

just share the pain
with you.

And if my pen should cease
to write in rhyme
what I wonder
would I do with my time,

how dull t’ would be
for mind and eye,
the wonder of a moment
pass me by,

and if the passion
in my soul should wane
would I look on it all as
just mundane,

not see the tear, sense the fear
or feel the flame,
not record it all in metered frame,

and if it were to be this way
how sad would be
my every day.

The journey now is much akin
to barren long left towns
where tumbleweed drifts aimlessly
between the old ramshackle  homes,

with slow despondent footfalls
along deserted dusty streets,
blackened windows and boarded doors
echo all of life’s defeats,

a woebegone and broken soul
with no hope or chance to find
a way to get back what was lost
since the passing of the mind,

and with the darkness comes the cold night air
coupled with that vacant Dementia stare.

Gather round, sit down me lads
and I´ll tell to you a tale
of when forty men were lost at sea
in the mother of a gale,
the story starts at Portsmouth docks
and it ends face in the sand
so listen in don´t miss a word...
our night out never went as planned.

´twas in a pub down by the harbour
and we was throwing down the grog
we was laughing we was singing
it seemed our brains was filled with fog,
the doors they burst wide open
the press gang took us one by one
with wooden clubs they set about us
our lives at sea had just begun.

I woke up in a hammock
seemed like me head was split in two
the screams of show a leg you scurvy ****
was the start of days I´d rue,
they taught us fast to reef the main
and how to navigate by stars
they taught us not to cross the line
if we did the “cat” would leave her scars.

Six months it was we´d been at sea
and no more a motley crew
we were hardened trained professionals
who could cope when bad winds blew,
but the weather it was changing
far worse than we had ever seen
the ship she took a hammering
from pounding seas upon the beam.

The storm was unrelenting
for three weeks without a pause
we were weary sick and frightened
we were lost and way off course,
the wind it blew in from the north
force nine or maybe ten
the sky was black inducing fear
amongst us broken men.

The Captain he was sick in bed
and looking fit to die
the surgeon said he´s coughing blood
as black as that there sky,
the mast was shattered in the storm
the sails were ripped apart
´twas only us six left aboard
from forty at the start.

Fresh water kegs had washed away
the rations they were soaked
we had not eaten for three days
our hope and will was broke,
our ship she floundered in the sea
a sea that boiled with rage
a sea that would take all our lives
and no one will be saved.

´twas Davy Jones that made a pact
with strong winds from the north
that not a soul would live to see
a brighter day shine forth,
the Captains dead the surgeon said
so now we´re only five
lets pray to God that he can help
us feeble few survive.

We looked at him with knowing eyes
with eyes so filled with fear
we´re dead already said the mate
that sky is drawing near,
the wind it hit with such a force
the timbers they all split
the deck it heaved and broke apart
and splintered into bits.

The storm screamed like a witch on fire
who´s being sent to hell
and we all knew we´d join her soon
none left the tale to tell,
a giant wave then hit me
and washed me out to sea
all went dark and icy cold
and I thought it was the end for me.

When I awoke face in the sand
I thought I must be dead
with nightmares of the past few weeks
running through my head,
so now you have your answer
to why I sit here by the wall
splicing ropes to earn a crust
but that my lads not all,
I´ll tell you this my trusty friends
and I´ll tell you this for free
never will this man, I promise you,
sail again the seven seas.