Poems

MEMORIES

By M.E.Gasson, May 2003

I am standing in my garden, in the early morning haze,

Looking up towards the hillside where the quiet cattle graze.

And the fog which night has gathered on the swamp which lies between,

Forms a blanket which enhances this, my early morning scene.

But now further up the valley, from the quarry neath the hills,

Comes the sound of early blasting which my peaceful scene dispels

For the sound I hear recalls me to the echo of a gun,

In a valley in Korea in the spring of fifty one.

And the fog which shrouds the swamp land, now assumes a deeper hue

Like the gunsmoke on the paddi, in that valley that I knew.

I smell the cordite once again, and as the daylight comes,

I see spread across the valley floor, that regiment of guns.

The Middlesex ahead of us, Australians to the right,

And to the left Canadians have held on through the night.

With target after target from our O.P. on the crest.

The Gunners feed the guns, their bodies crying out for rest.

For the guns now, like an orchestra, the targets they engage,

With a symphony of anger, a cacophony of rage.

And from the hill above me, just beyond the nearest crest,

Comes the stutter of the bren guns from the infantry hard pressed.

From the road which lies behind us come the Army Service Corps,

Dump their load of ammunition, and then speed back off for more.

I see walking wounded moving through our lines, while overhead

Fly the choppers which are lifting out the dying and the dead.

And now at last, the foe repelled, the storm and fury done,

Each weary gunner lays him down and sleeps beside his gun.

Now I hear a pheasant calling, and a stirring in the trees,

And I feel the cool caresses of an early morning breeze

I feel a hand upon my arm, a voice beside me say,

“What are you thinking of my love? You seem so far away.”

My ageing eyes refocus on the farm-let that we share,

The orchard with the apple trees, the peach, the plum, the pear.

The sun is up, the mist is gone, the cattle on the hill,

Are back to grazing peacefully, and all is calm and still.

You sometimes smile and tell me of the things that I forget,

People’s names and missed appointments, little things like that, and yet

Despite the years that lie between, my mind can still recall,

How we held the line that April, on the road that led to Seoul.

My Father Wouldn’t Talk to Me

My father wouldn’t talk to me

Bout the years tween 50, 53.

But now of course it’s far too late,

Heavens opened her Pearly gate.

Down below or up in heaven,

He’s swopping stories about Two-Seven

The Middy’s regiment he was in,

A soldier just like Gunga Din.

I asked him once, “what did you do”?

He stared at me and looked right through

“Can’t tell you son, bout what we did,

No glory for me, was just a kid.”

The snow was deep, the frost sat thick,

That Yankees clothing did the trick.

My 303 was my best friend,

Kept me going till the end.

I spent seven months in hell,

Frozen and muddy, I saw mates fell.

Two-Seven were the first to fight,

Rarely got to bed at night

We followed Generals, Corporals too,

Sometimes hadn’t got a clue.

Food was scarce and ammo short,

But like lions, we all fought.

So I can’t tell you what we did

Cos I was only just a kid.

I spent too long, trying to find,

A long forgotten peace of mind

The Korean war, once was dramatic

As years have passed, now traumatic.

I cannot sleep, because I find,

Shot and shell inside my mind

My memories, I don’t regret,

Seems so hard to forget.

Days were hot, nights were cold,

At just 19 I felt so old.

Plum Pudding and Hill 253,

Other places we did see.

Horrors of the things we saw,

That my son’s the forgotten war.

By Robert Buckell, April 2006.

Dedicated to my father.

Just Beyond The Rusty Wire

A hazy light across the morn,

A pale pink glow signals dawn.

No birds sing, no foxes bark,

Silence splits the quiet dark.

A clink, a rustle a silent cough,

A letter finished for a love that’s lost.

Men stir and tense, peer through the wire,

No heat, no smoke from the cold fire.

A light goes up, a whistle shrills,

Trumpets blast up in the hills.

Deep below down in the trench,

A soldier cries, his stomach wrench.

“Stand to”, the shout as men alert,

Arise from out of hidden dirt.

Weapons cleaned, ready now,

Ammo loaded, sweat on brow.

Bullets whine above our heads,

Moments ago in our beds.

A boom and thump, incoming shell.

Explosions near, a scene from hell.

Bren Gun fires in short sharp bursts,

Change the barrel and do your worst.

“Fix Bayonets”, the cry is real,

Give them a taste of cold hard steel.

We see them now, those yellow men,

Yards away, first twenty then ten.

They scream and yell as they come near,

In my throat I taste true fear.

I shake right now as I take aim,

Pull my trigger, feel no blame.

A man goes down, just feet away,

He’ll never fight no more today.

Out of the trench, forward we move,

On my bayonet a groove.

Running hard now like a jet,

Tunnel vision, blood is let.

All over now, what have we done,

The battle over, but who has won?

Exhausted to our trenches, we retire,

Just beyond the rusty wire.

By Robert Buckell April 2006

Dedicated to Bert.

Where are you?

I see your image everywhere,

in crumbling buildings and mountain valleys.

The clouds are your shadow,

haunting me night and day.

The wind your whisper in my ear,

the rain your tears of sorrow and joy.

I hear you calling me to you,

but can never find you when I look.

I sense you everywhere,

in coincidence and symbols.

Your books feed my appetite,

yet hunger for you gnaws in my stomach still.

I look for clues in your words,

and seek answers from your experts.

I saw about your footprints in the sand,

the sea dissolved them before my eyes.

How can I believe in you,

when you hide from me?

Lord where are you?


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