Hello again,
Unknown to me, this beautiful poem was written a few weeks ago by a chap who lived with his Mum and Dad, a couple of doors away from my Father. He is now in his 50s and obviously my Dad’s stories made a lasting impression on him.
My Dad used to do the garden for his parents as they were both busy professional people. He often had the little lad with him .This was back in the 1970,s and Simon the boy who has written it was only about 5 ,full of questions and always chatting with Dad.
His Mum has just sent it to my wife and me with our Christmas Card. Now my eyes have dried after the emotional shock , I just have to put it on here to share with you all.
Every word is exactly as I remember him telling my own boys and their friends, (when he could be persuaded to talk about the Great War.)
The reference to Beetles is that when he was a boy himself Dad’s job was to draw the water from the well and then pick the bugs and beetles out of the bucket.
I hope you enjoy the read .Merry Christmas to you all. Roger.
It was the story of the drinking water that made me think of Mr Harris.
About 70 he lived on the corner when I was small.
Neat tended garden he had fought in the Great War.
A Kent country lad he drew his water from the well. A brimming bucket he said with beetles swimming in it.
From apple blossomed, dappled, country lanes, Kent he left
Or the battle fields of France..
A gentle peaceful man he fired a Lewis Gun.
“Did you kill anyone?” I wanted to know.
He wouldn’t tell me!
My older self ,now can see the remembered sadness in his face,
Of someone from quiet orchard and country side, to mud murder and death.
“Did you kill anyone?” I wanted to know .
He wouldn’t tell me but told instead of traps left behind in captured trenches. Of handsome Watches, Glittering prizes. Prizes that shattered bone and Sinew, left for the unwary to grab, unknowing of the bomb set to blow.
Mr Harris didn’t pick apples then but told me of picking up body parts .Not apple boxes but sandbags for the grisly harvest.
Mr Harris spent time in the garden, growing things with love and care.
A gentle man, he grew tomatoes in a greenhouse.
I would help him water, they have their own fragrance. Tomatoes in a greenhouse. Tangy ,growing, fecund they fill the air.
When I smell it now .I breathe in ,even many years later, it takes me back to warm sunny days .. 5 years old … of Mr Harris and of beetles swimming in a bucket.
