Post by Nuala Bowtitt on Mar 18, 2007 0:57:32 GMT
I apologise in advance for the length of this poem. If you give up halfway, I fully understand.
A LIFE IN A BOX
He’d cycled from Kidwelly back in 1937, a young man with a pack upon his back
Escaping from the coalface had been his one main goal and to see what lay beyond the piles of slack.
It took him all of two days to get to good old Brum with just a single stop along the way.
He’d heard the work was plentiful, a living to be made and he’d always been a man who’d paid his way.
The city took his breath away, this small town lad from Wales but he settled in quite quickly. Once employed,
he bought himself a motorbike, a passion long time held. Being far away from home, it filled a void.
One night while at the cinema, he met his Hilda fair. His chat up line secured a future date.
She loved bikes – what a bonus – and they made a lovely pair and he knew to marry her would be his fate.
Born in 1916, he’d escaped the first world war but the second one had reared its ugly head.
In no time he was waving ‘ Goodbye ‘ to his new wife and marching down the road to hell instead.
Away for 5 long years, the war was over. He came home, with a shed load full of medals as his prize
And as he hugged his wife to him, he prayed for some respite from the horrors still assaulting his mind’s eye.
A few years into peacetime and a baby boy was born. How wanted and how loved this precious child.
They’d waited such a long time for their firstborn’s welcome birth. It seemed to make what they’d been through worthwhile.
The boy grew up and married, moving to another world leaving he and Hilda still in love, but lost.
After 60 years together his dear Hilda lost the fight. He knew she was at peace. He bore the cost.
His hearing failed, his eyesight dimmed, the body grew quite frail. The years passed as he sat there on his own
But he still had long term memory of the happy loving times in these very rooms they’d shared for oh so long.
Now the land had been repurchased, the flats would be knocked down and at 91 years old he had to go.
He couldn’t comprehend it. Hilda still lived in this place. If he moved to somewhere else, how would she know?
And now he sits surrounded by his life in different form. A cardboard box for this and one for that.
The old place had been draughty and up on the 8th floor but despite it all, he’d loved their little flat.
In this box is the crockery and nick knacks that she’d loved, so out of date but priceless to his mind.
Cotton reels and conkers, safety pins and rubber bands. He’d kept her watch. ‘It only needs a wind ‘
Another box has photos – a lot in black and white of a little smiley face with white blond hair
And lots of them with Hilda riding pillion on the bike. They looked as if they didn’t have a care.
In coloured ones, the smiley face had grown into a man with a wife and daughter, living far away.
He used to go and visit them but that was in the past. He didn’t have the energy today.
The posters of the track bikes from some calendars he’d had, once carefully positioned on the wall
with a picture of ‘The Baggies’, his beloved football team now nestled in a box out in the hall.
I wonder what exactly can be going through his mind. To be uprooted now can’t be much fun.
But that’s what is expected so that’s what must be done – to start a life anew at ninety one.
A LIFE IN A BOX
He’d cycled from Kidwelly back in 1937, a young man with a pack upon his back
Escaping from the coalface had been his one main goal and to see what lay beyond the piles of slack.
It took him all of two days to get to good old Brum with just a single stop along the way.
He’d heard the work was plentiful, a living to be made and he’d always been a man who’d paid his way.
The city took his breath away, this small town lad from Wales but he settled in quite quickly. Once employed,
he bought himself a motorbike, a passion long time held. Being far away from home, it filled a void.
One night while at the cinema, he met his Hilda fair. His chat up line secured a future date.
She loved bikes – what a bonus – and they made a lovely pair and he knew to marry her would be his fate.
Born in 1916, he’d escaped the first world war but the second one had reared its ugly head.
In no time he was waving ‘ Goodbye ‘ to his new wife and marching down the road to hell instead.
Away for 5 long years, the war was over. He came home, with a shed load full of medals as his prize
And as he hugged his wife to him, he prayed for some respite from the horrors still assaulting his mind’s eye.
A few years into peacetime and a baby boy was born. How wanted and how loved this precious child.
They’d waited such a long time for their firstborn’s welcome birth. It seemed to make what they’d been through worthwhile.
The boy grew up and married, moving to another world leaving he and Hilda still in love, but lost.
After 60 years together his dear Hilda lost the fight. He knew she was at peace. He bore the cost.
His hearing failed, his eyesight dimmed, the body grew quite frail. The years passed as he sat there on his own
But he still had long term memory of the happy loving times in these very rooms they’d shared for oh so long.
Now the land had been repurchased, the flats would be knocked down and at 91 years old he had to go.
He couldn’t comprehend it. Hilda still lived in this place. If he moved to somewhere else, how would she know?
And now he sits surrounded by his life in different form. A cardboard box for this and one for that.
The old place had been draughty and up on the 8th floor but despite it all, he’d loved their little flat.
In this box is the crockery and nick knacks that she’d loved, so out of date but priceless to his mind.
Cotton reels and conkers, safety pins and rubber bands. He’d kept her watch. ‘It only needs a wind ‘
Another box has photos – a lot in black and white of a little smiley face with white blond hair
And lots of them with Hilda riding pillion on the bike. They looked as if they didn’t have a care.
In coloured ones, the smiley face had grown into a man with a wife and daughter, living far away.
He used to go and visit them but that was in the past. He didn’t have the energy today.
The posters of the track bikes from some calendars he’d had, once carefully positioned on the wall
with a picture of ‘The Baggies’, his beloved football team now nestled in a box out in the hall.
I wonder what exactly can be going through his mind. To be uprooted now can’t be much fun.
But that’s what is expected so that’s what must be done – to start a life anew at ninety one.