THE KID ON SLAPTON BEACH – the story starts at Christmas in 1943 when three thousand people are forced to leave the coastal area. Harry, her young hero leaves his home in the village of Torcross at Slapton Sands with his mother and his little sister. Imagine – packing up, leaving everything you know and love behind, and not knowing why.
But Harry has left his most precious possession behind. And he goes back. And it’s just as Exercise Tiger is about to happen….
American President Harry Trueman once said: “The only thing new in the world is the history you don’t know.”
Seeing these poppies
she thinks of a quiet corner of a field,
wild poppies and fragments of dark slate,
white bones of a song bird, or
Them all. Him.
A spent shell risen. A rusted gun plate.
Huge rolled tangles of barbed wire
marking trenches on that drawn out line
and lives lived beside already buried men.
Dripping oil, and smell of fire and fear,
called up young men, and volunteer.
Horses. Screaming. Squelching mud,
and gunfire round.
Boots biting deep into that ground,
leaving pale thin scar,
and more over there.
A sign it might be where
These poppies glisten in the London sun.
He was his country’s man and King’s.
Like a cross she bears his name.
Coming here, the Tower,
listening to young voices
generations on, so strong and clear,
for her this flower field blooms in bright blood red
and though he’s long dead, she cares.
She holds the line.
She’s glad she came. She knows
This poem of mine appears on a brass plaque near the country bus stop overlooking…
Who called this Down, Bleak?
What eye berated
these grey green undulating fields,
the dips and falls of country sweeping out?
Trail the Yar river springing
near the parish church in Niton.
Pass farms like Lavender, Eastview,
Appleford and Bridge
and see not bleak but bountiful.
Not the dark overhang of Bagwich Lane,
but bright gold God-given gorse and
blue sky. And at night,
not interrupting town light,