Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Cry of My Country

 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.

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Emma Napier helped her friend escape an unwelcome marriage. Then she met Lord Desborough, a handsome young rake, who was looking for a temporary wife. He thought Emma was the perfect choice. 

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