Poetry 12

The Fantasy of Reality There was a time, I don’t quite remember when, My mind worked ahead of me At things I scarcely knew In a world of my imagination, Where only nice things happened And horrid things were few. I think they called it fantasy, Though to me it was all new, My friends were real, The fields were real, But reality was overdue. I still play games inside my head, But now I write them down And fantasy becomes reality In a world of words renown. "Once upon a time..."

The Last Sabre Charge of the Yeomanry - 1917 Under the African sun On the burning sands of the Huj. Armed with sabres and incredible courage They charged rather than run. The men of the Worcestershire Yeomanry Faced twenty-thousand men, Three Howitzers, twenty-one artillery guns, The weaponry of the Hun. They were told ‘Just point your weapon and aim Let the speed of your horse do the rest.’ Blades slashing and flashing they charged Like demons they rode, setting the desert aflame. Sand billowing, voices screaming in the sun, They charged a superior foe, Fear entered the enemy and even before the end Every Yeoman was a hero as the enemy started to run. One hundred and eighty one cavalry Scattered the Turks across the desert And Sabred alongside their weaponry Killed all the artillery men. Thirty-six heroes died and fifty-seven were injured, But by a hundred years or more They set back the Ottoman Empire, A feat unequalled in war.

Worcestershire Yeomanry at Huj in the Sinai Desert at 1.30pm on 8th November 1917, just before the final British Cavalry Charge against guns

Additional Information: For a personal recollection of the Cavalry Charge at Huj, by Corporal Darcy Jones of the Worcestershire Yeomanry, please click here.

The Economics of War “Send ten thousand men.” “Make sure you’ve got the body bags To bring them back again.”

The end of the beginning Somewhere there was a beginning, But I am near the end. Could it be, in this frenetic, confused world, That I am nearer the beginning than the end? Is the end really only the beginning?

Unspoken The loneliness of one Is nothing compared to the loneliness Of two who do not speak. That is a loneliness That withers up the soul.

Shadows Night, when all the shadows Become lurking dragons Waiting to pounce. And the shadows of the mind Become unspoken horrors And overwhelming obsessions.

Brute force Brutes blare their artificial suns, Hissing, spitting carbon-arcs; A cacophony of chiaroscuro.

Silence There is silence, Then a whisper of wind Shivers the leaves. The Wind becomes a light breeze Twigs rustle and dance in happy obedience. The wind encouraged by this dance Grows ever stronger, more demanding, Branches begin to sway and bend Until entire trees are thrashing to the Tune of an increasingly dominant wind. Anger is emphasized by a darkening sky That growls and laughs harshly. Black clouds applaud loudly With flashing drumsticks of light. Encouraged by the thunderstruck sky The wind turns into a howling hurricane, That sends man’s toys tumbling Around like so much rubbish. Cars and caravans roll and clatter around, Tiles fly from the roofs of buildings and Rafters crack and sway whilst man himself Scurries from hiding place to hiding place, Finding none from the probing fingers Of the fiercesome shrieking wind. Trees tear their roots from the earth, Their death throes crashing and thrashing Everything in their stricken falling. Walls and buildings crumble and rumble into A nothingness of a land laid to waste. The wind pauses to look around at the destruction It has wrought and passes on, nature triumphant. And then in the aftermath There is silence.