I wrote this poem for a friend of mine and
didn't intend to publish it. She was English and belonged to the Edward
Thomas Society when she lived in England. She was shocked when I said I had
never heard of Edward Thomas let alone read his poetry. She leant me a book of
his poetry. As I read I realised how different her growing up in England was to
my childhood in Australia. In her old age, she was perhaps filled with memories of
her childhood.
Edward Thomas was one of the doomed World War 1
poets. He was killed in action, Arras, France, on Easter Monday, 9th April,
1917.
Cry of my country.
To Eileen Turle
She said
Have you read Edward Thomas
and lent me a book
of his poetry.
He spoke of English things
Of meadowsweet
the first primrose
the blackbird song at evening
and English lanes
green and white in their season.
These things she remembered.
My road runs wide and long.
Through the shimmering heat
The red dust dances
beyond the horizon
and from a Tallerack
by the creek
comes the harsh call of a crow.