Sitting beneath the orchard trees,
the meadow newly mown,
consuming tea and scones,
on plastic chairs and tables,
what does this place convey,
beside the request
(in fifty-seven tongues)
Please return your tray?
I punted down the river,
in humid May Ball weather,
and there, on a nearby chair,
sat the quiet ghost of Arthur,
who coasted down the Scots’ right wing,
like a well-oiled spring,
before he died of cancer.
Chicago honey draws the wasps
and visitors who know
the unforgotten river smell
and of the poet who dwelt
in the Old Vicarage and wrote,
of dust that England made aware.
in his soldier sonnet.
Poisoned by an insect bite
on Skyros, he died the day before
Churchill’s famed disaster
(where I recall my childhood barber
lost his nearest mate,
when side by side they hit
Gallipoli beach together).
Keeled over at my shoulder said
Bert Jordan - who lived to tell the tale,
and clip untidy hair, and die in bed.
Rupert, unlike Bert, did not grow frail,
but lived to hear a luckier poet say,
In his old soldier way:
He’d change his Georgian style.
Had Brooke lived to see
the carnage of Gallipoli,
I’d bet he still would not agree
these lines of mine were poetry,
nor would he relish US honey,
(though still with Devon cream) for tea.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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