Lone Star
Mells Churchyard
General Synopsis
Lone Star A gentle chime; a woman mixes water-colours for a sunset sketch, a table of bottles to alchemise moods of sky, texture of tree, feel of feather. The birder with Swarovski 'scope; a lens to tempt prey from the darkest horizon, leans against a silver birch eyes observing words writing themselves in shadows cast by cloud and dying solstice sun; awaiting his quarry the tight black drum of starlings rippling across the rolling red and yellow of December's celluloid thread when suddenly their lime-light dims, Penelope unpicks the winter, and a twenty voice choir points out the lone star overhead House Martin! they sing strangers all, but in unison; Six days from Christmas flying well and strong as the artist's brush hangs in dripping disbelief and the Swarovski 'scope points at the earth, incredulous. There had been Black Friday and Cyber Monday. There were figures of commerce alighting on pages as if the season relied on murmurations of madness; But this bird, defying the winter living through and off the air, finding enough to survive half a death-sentence at least- This is what we would remember. The year a house martin stayed until Christmas. Copyright © 2015 Richard J Whiting
Mells Churchyard (For Siegfried Sassoon) The conspicuous gallantry which was your life Knew little peace, such as this peace of Mells Between the avenue of yews The shadows of St Andrewʼs Church To the simple stone that marks the place Where forever you lay. Do those fields of ripening wheat, The gently folding Mendip skies, Sweet wild garlic tasted on the breeze, Take you back to a Wealden youth At The Old Centuryʼs turn Under a dome of always azure sky? Or does this land, this Somerset serenity Leave you casting your Subalternʼs eye Over ridges, vales and wood Imagining the saps, the Salient The duck-board, mud and rats Of your summers on the Somme? Those twisted, tortured, death-ridden days When foreign fields filled with corpses Never again for England; Somehow you made it through And here, in this pastoral peace you lie In Memoriam. In Wootton Bassett, forty miles from your grave, Youth still mourns its daily doom Like wheat cut green. Can the breeze still carry your voice? Does anyone hear your words? Oh Jesus, make it Stop.
Mells, Somerset July 2010 Final line from Attack, by Siegfried Sassoon Copyright © 2010 Richard Whiting
General Synopsis Oh girl on the Shipping Forecast How I wish I was tied to your mast I don’t care if you’re Mavis, Andrea or Vera Be the South to my North Utsire My partner on a Saturday night I’ll take you out for a German Bight We’ll stay up till twelve minutes to one Until Wick Automatic has been and gone Though I’m way past my Forties, what can I say I know my conduct is not Ronaldsway will you love me forever, mighty or lowly when everything about me is rising more slowly? I’ll forgive your every indiscretion your rude interruption of the pre-lunch session during Test Match Special at 12.01 with England’s openers approaching a ton If you’ll just read really slowly for me my favourite Long-Wave poetry Fair Isle, Faeroes, heart be still Lundy, Fastnet, Portland Bill. Warning of gales with increasing power lets marry beneath a squally shower moderate or good, that’s the best of me the rest has veered south-westerly My love for you is heaven sent stronger than Yesterday In Parliament The Daily Service I’d place last my girl, oh my girl on the Shipping Forecast. Copyright © Richard J Whiting