A Rough Sawn Bench

A photo hangs on my bedroom wall
My wife sits still on a rough sawn bench
In Polygon Wood five miles from Ypres
Just down the road from Passchendaele Ridge

Ten yards away in perfect lawn
Their chiseled names in somber stone
Then on the wall a simple thanks
Returns the poppy, carried home

What can I say to silent graves in mute response?
What homeland news to share from where they came
For all that which they held so dear and lost
Counts no years, remains the same

The musty woolshed's still, no click of shears
The table's clean and summer's done
High on the tops a dust of snow
Full cold the Southerly bites the musterer's hut now winter's come

Down on the Coast the seawall claps and roars
Noise drags the stones down to the bay
But you would still remember this, for nothing's changed
Not since that awful October day

The grey Firth still chops up rough
When the Norther foams strong against the autumn tide
And on the wharf you held her hand
No one will ever know the dearest dreams that died inside

Worked the corner store then home down past the park
Where once the mud and rain was just a game, a weekend scrum
Now lists your name beneath the tagger's art
In battle-grey and silently she let you go when we all thought the peace was won

Still the Northern balmy summers run into the stars
Of blistered sun and driftwood glows upon the sand
Still warms the heart the close strummed chords of a guitar
And distant thoughts of adventure in a foreign land
 
Some for the King and few, no khaki speech will move the colonial heart
Just stand in line to do your part
In death with comrades and good mates to roam
No different could I have lived my life

Helen sits on a rough sawn bench
In Polygon Wood ten yards from home.

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