My poem for submission to the new anthology of poetry to be published in 2014 as a commemoration to the first world war.

Grantchester Meadows - Autumn (Photo credit: hchalkley)

Some Hand: Extracts from a one act play.

Opening scene: On shaking hands with a Cambridge undergraduate at Grantchester in the glorious early Spring of 1916, before he goes to the Somme, as an officer and a gentleman.

In the dappled orchard of Grantchester we meet.

He, a student of merit, an athlete.

We meet, we greet.

We shake hands for the first and last time.

This is the hand of the Elite.

He has not worked below his feet,

In mine, nor steel.

Fingers are long,

Elegant strong.

Slim but not thin,

Meant for the Boardroom.

Academic hand,

Aristocratic hand,

Young lover’s hand.

Man’s veins down the middle

Branching into light blue rivulets.

Blue-blood hands.

Skin light and Bright

Coloured sun-brown

Not grasping, but open honest.

Athletic hand,

Keen hand,

Fast-moving hand,

Muscled and clean.

This is the hand that could feed a family.

Could rule a nation. Destined for things great.

This is a hand that has touched and loved.

This is a hand of a gentle man.

These are just the hands we need to make war.

Below the Autumn-laden apple trees we laugh,

Hand round the scones and tea.

The blueskygoldsun dips and fades.

And on the air, I hear the rain.

Vernon Goddard Revised December 2013.

Some Land: Extracts from the front of stage: July, 1916.

Another scene, another place, another time. On 1st July, 1916, 100,000 Allied troops advanced from the trenches of the Somme anticipating an easy and quick break-through of the enemy lines. This was not to be. Over the course of the next few months, and, by the end of the battle, a million and a quarter men had perished.

Picardy: ancient orchard, fringed with charlock,

Scabious and cornflower under heavy skies.

Sancta terra, sacred land;

Sangua terra, bloody land.

Now my land,

My place, my bunker as cold as any pit.

Noisy in the fireworks.

My gun, my bayonet, steel-hard,

Clean, bright and lightly oiled.

My bloodied hand, deep-red.

My men, my few men left, so few now.

We shake each others hands or nod.

Seven thirty.

And the barrage

Stops.

My breathing, coming hard.

And in the air, I feel the rain.

Head wet, hair wet like Brylcream,

Kit wet, boots ready to parade.

Lips dry.

My whistle in my mouth.

And with one soft peeeeeep,

We're up,

Over and out.

We greet and meet the terrible rain,

The leaden drizzle.

Some fall, I fall.

Just like the rain,

On Byron's pool.

Sancta terra, Sangua terra.

Vernon Goddard Revised December 2013.

Copyright David Vernon Goddard.