POEM TITLE PASSING ON 29.05.2022
POEM Three generations of us at this date
Set out to walk from ancient Abercorn
Along the Forth to stout Blackness on Sea.
My legs not what they were, I take the gate.
The others climb the stile whose worn stones
Lead to the graveyard in the church's lee.
Small fingers trace the outline of a skull,
Memento Mori of the dusty bones
Of those who lived and loved and laboured here.
But children have no care for Death, no fear.
I, with my own in mind, bring up the rear.
It seems not long ago, I was the one
Skipping along beside my Dad in tweeds,
Not shooting now, no longer with his gun,
Swinging his stick, his pipe between his teeth.
A Sunday afternoon to be at peace,
To walk along the burn or on the beach.
He knew the birds, their flight, their eggs, their call.
We learned to listen and could name them all.
But war and jungle heat took out their toll.
That carefree time was precious but not long.
I'd hardly reached my teens and he was gone.
We stop a moment, just to catch our breath.
Taking his daughter's hand, Rob shows to Beth
The many wildflowers growing by the path.
"Red campion, speedwell, blue forget-me-not.
We musn't pick the wildflowers now." But she
Pulls off some blossom from a hawthorn tree
And laughing, throws the petals in the air.
I bend to brush them off, but some are caught.
"Look! Grandma has white snowflakes in her hair!"
Away they sprint, lured onwards by the thought
Of "Ninety-niners" at the Lobster Pot.
We stop again and looking to the woods,
Elliot spies bracket fungus on a beech.
"My Grandpa told me that!" A force for good,
Nature his passion, Ron was born to teach.
Raised in the toxic smoke of black Dundee,
Asthmatic, not expected to survive,
Evacuated at the age of five,
He thrived amid the country air, the trees.
Self-taught, he learned their shape, their wood, their leaves.
Environmentalist before the name,
What he passed on to children will remain.
To lunch and respite at the Lobster Pot,
Hungry and nearly there, we hurry on.
How many lobsters, fishes, can you spot?
Or dogs, or figureheads? No end of fun.
New tastes to try. Halloumi fries? Why not?
The Castle still awaits. We storm the gates.
Elliot and Bethy eager now to climb
And crawl on every gun port, every wall.
The Internet's no substitute for slime.
Our history's laid out here, Blackness on Sea.
Dark chimneys, ancient loos. Bumped head, skinned knee.
And so we straggle back to Abercorn,
The wee one drowsing in the buggy now
And me supported on my son's strong arm.
Back to the graves of those who worked the land,
Passed on their craft, instructed by their hand.
Next year perhaps, if I'm no longer here,
What will my dears remember of this day,
These hours? The quirky Lobster Pot, that's clear.
The smells of Summer and the names of flowers?
History, assimilated unaware
And blossom sprinkled in their Grandma's hair.
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