Saturday morning

[smokingboot]

So after much hopeless travel faff, I found myself at Manchester Victoria hopelessly early for the connection. My head was full of mikes, talkbacks, monitors, make-up and all the paraphenalia of the singularly fun, silly job I do. I trundled off the train to find myself faced with a service commemorating the anniversary of the Somme in the entranceway to the station. Representatives from the armed forces were there, local tv and radio stations, banners flying...they prayed, cadets stumbled through poetry; a young airforce girl who knew her lines but was almost defeated by the mike, vanquishing her foe by the end of the last line, a bold wannabe soldier boy who started with great gusto and then, forgetting his words, was helped by the kind chaplain who spoke it with him; Age shall not wither them...

They played the Last Post on bugles and we cried. At other times I might scream not to be fobbed off with some shite about my son/lover/father/brother never growing old; no poetry will gloss for me the reality of an intellect, a love, a hope, a person blown to smithereens, trodden into mud, dying of gas or a bullet or a mine or dysentry. Don't talk to me about heroes, I could say, they were just stupid, they did it because they were told to is all...and no death is glorious. Yes I could say all that. But this was not the place for rage or polemic. I found myself wondering how many had died that morning, by the end of the service, around 11.15 am. I am not sure the future was worth their sacrifice. The dead are always around us, but I felt them so close yesterday morning, in love and sorrow. They were with me still when I caught my train.