(for Peter Common & Dan Pinnock)
No
power can disinherit:
No
bomb that ever burst
Shatters
the crystal spirit.' (George
Orwell).
I
stood at your door,
knocked
in the English sunshine,
bowed
to greet you
but
could not hear
the
chatter
from
your typewriter
or
the rain pecking
at
the tin roof,
only
the plummet of the leaves
brushing
against my face
and
the birds
falling
over the fields.
Thought
of you and Jack Common,
shaking
hands
in
open debate,
patched
sleeves
damp
on the bar counter,
ploughing
through
tracts
of history,
eyes
on the horizon
looking
for War
and
bombs
over
Datchworth's spire.
This
magic morning,
clear
sky in our hearts.
No
September showers,
only
goats bleating,
a
horse trotting
down
the lane
and,
in the day dream,
St
Mary's bells
glistening
with
Eileen asleep
in
the clouds.
What
should I say?
We
are weak.
I
know you were awkward
but,
like Jack, full of love.
Out
of bullets,
flowers
may grow;
out
of trenches,
seeds.
The
roses
and
acorns of thoughts
you
planted
those
years ago
in
Kits Lane,
nourish
us now
in
these brief minutes,
gifts
from
your writing hand
farming
for words,
the
eggs of essays,
the
jam on your fingers.
You
were scraping a book together,
smoking
the breath
out
of your collapsing lungs,
taking
the world
on
your creaking bent shoulders,
riding
across fields
for
friends,
bones
aching,
fighting
to exist
in
the cold breeze.
Still
the Simpson's Ale
was
good in the Plough,
the
old laughter still
flying
down this Wallington lane,
with
the crackling children
sparkling
on
an idyllic day.
Enjoy
this beauty,
it
will turn to pain.
Sing
your folk songs,
dig
your garden,
dance
in your brain.
Graft
and graft
until
all the breath is gone.
Leave
a brave mark
in
the dust
round
Animal Farm.
What
a good thing
to
be alive
where
songbirds soar
and
daffodils nod.
Over
the slaughter
of
motorways,
we
are following
your
large footprints
into
this bright countryside
where
good people
adopt
another's children
and
still
fall
in love
with
England.
KEITH
ARMSTRONG
Written
after visiting Orwell’s cottage in Wallington, Hertfordshire, where
he lived with Eileen O’Shaughnessy and which was once looked after
for him by fellow writer Jack Common.
'The more I read ‘Wallington Morning’ the more I like it. Very well done, an extremely clever and well written poem!' (Peter Common, son of Jack)
'I love this! Very emotive! Draws pictures in my brain and melts my heart. Thank you.' (Denise Byrne, daughter of Peter).
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