Today is the anniversary of my great-uncle Bertie's birth in 1892. Born into a working class family in Worcester, he grew up in a modest Victorian terrace with his parents and six siblings. Bertie, his father and three brothers (including my grandfather) served in World War I, Bertie in the Royal Field Artillery. Tragically, he was killed in action in Flanders on 28 July 1917, aged 25.
Yesterday my son visited his grave at Gwalia Cemetery, as far as I am aware, the first member of the family to do so. The visit inspired this poem.
Photo credit: Rafii Khan
From Gwalia to White Ladies
You were tending the blood red roses when I approached,
Their crimson heads bobbing against the bone white gravestone.
Crouched down, your head was bowed in reverence to the living.
I paused a while to note the neat cut of your hair,
The glint of sunlight on brass,
Your tender gardener's hands.
"Let's go home," I whispered, and felt your earthy hand in mine.
Back at White Ladies, we sat with steaming cups of tea,
Your generous hands engulfing fine china.
I recognised the black-haired young man who sauntered in, my grandfather.
I put my hands to my cheekbones, jaw, chin.
Yes, that's him.
"Bertie," he said quietly and shook your hand.
I sat silently while the rain fell against the window,
Inhaling the sounds of home.
Your mother hummed in the kitchen, just steps away.
Your father rustled his newspaper.
It was a sign for you to glance across, smile softly.
"Best place in the world, home, Bert," he said.
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