st cynllo's church

The Last Time I Saw You

An Old Soldier Remembers

A poem inspired by a line in the diary of a ‘Carmarthen Pal’

Weary, I pause, leaning heavily on my stick,
Breath, hard to come by, lungs corrupted by gas
A momento from those days in France
But for this moment, I could be there again
As I gaze over the rolling hills and back down the years
There, a lone figure in the distance, striding purposefully
And once more, I am back in Flanders’ fields

It was just you coming towards me, nobody else ?
No walking wounded, no comrades in arms ?
Your face was wreathed in a smile
Like nothing I had seen for so long
A brief exchange of words as you approached
“My leave has come through. Seven days away from this !”
“Please, if you can, tell my folks I’m safe and well”

A quick handshake and you were gone
Down the lane, hurrying home and who wouldn’t ?
Yet on your return you paid the ultimate price
For your good fortune. And no goodbye
Weary, I pause, leaning heavily on my stick.
I am grown old while you remain unchanged my friend
Shall we recognize each other when next we meet ?

Martin Buck

Uncle Tom

'And they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their guns into cricket bats'.

Uncle Tom had been in the war,
Served in the trenches I was told.
Granny said that God had kept
him safe so he had come back
to us and I was, I suppose too
young to understand.
Later I learned that he had
suffered from shell shock.
A mild mannered man with a
passion for cricket who carved
miniature cricket bats out of
wood, binding the handles with
black cotton.
He hated the war, I loved
the cricket bats

Heather Stent

85 years old
Served in the wrens during the 2nd World War