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| 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.
Copyright David Vernon Goddard.
