Where I’m From
I am from the silver birches
and the white willows,
the beet beeches in towering
majesty – their leaves raked in
mounds for years.
I’m from meat and potato
pasties and lamb chops.
From Imelda and Stanley.
I’m from the Children Should
Be Seen and Not Heard,
from quiet restraint and
the belief in happiness.
I’m from all day Sunday walks
and the summer Dawn Chorus.
I am from old Roman roads
and red pillar boxes.
I am from the grim
and the grime of a dead empire
(the losses piled high,
slowly forgotten.)
I’m from men who fought
in trenches and men who
built ships of war.
From those that survived
on rations and triumphed
the barrage of The Blitz.
I am from the millions of
war dead and from fragments
of civilization not left behind
in the foreign fields.
