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.