Sue Cutler sent in this poem, remembering her late Grandfather, Mervyn Patrick Blackwell, as “A true gentleman and Newtonian whom we miss every day.
He wrote this poem and we read it to our children, and feel honoured to represent our Granda on Remembrance Sunday at St Clare’s Church where he once stood – a proud ex Sergeant in the RAF.”
The Old Man’s Tale
The young boy put aside his toys, and looked up from the floor,
‘I saw you marching Grandad, but what are all those poppies for?’
The old man looked down at his grandson,
‘Come sit here on my knee,
I will tell you about the poppy, and what it means to me.
In that ‘Great War’ now many years ago
In Flanders fields each summer, the poppy would always grow
To the soldiers it became a symbol,
that peace would come somehow
And man would put aside the sword and change it for the plough.
So I wear it for those millions who died to keep us free
At Paschendale, Mons, Ypres, The Somme and at Galipoli.
For when I was young just everyone wore a poppy in November
And with heads bowed, we all vowed, always to remember
I little thought as I looked round at the boys in my school form
That ere the poppy had bloomed many times, we’d wear the uniform
So I wear it for my schoolmates, and I wear it with pride,
To help the blind, the injured, and to remember my pals who died.
Grandson, you’re young, you saw the policeman on his horse
The soldiers and the band
Old Desert Rats saw young faces aged by burning sand,
And as the martial music, caused blood to surge thro’ veins,
They were back in Benghazi, Tobruk and El Alamein.
Others recalled old comrades, to us, of course, unseen.
Men of the 14th Army dressed in jungle green,
Some remembered the atrocities to the prisoners of war
On the Burma railways, at Changi, and Singapore.
Each man had his own thoughts, as he marched on that parade.
The convoys, ‘U’ boats, the nightly bomber raids,
Cassino, ‘A Bridge too Far’, the beaches of Normandy
Back to where the poppies grow, the final victory.
Younger men recalled comrades of a more recent year
Cyprus, Aden, Malaya, and, of course, Korea.
Heads turned in salute at the final Grand March Past
To salute men of the Falklands, the Gulf and Belfast.’
The old man stopped. ‘I talk too much’
Come, put away your toys.’
His voice was rough, his face was sad, and tears were in his eye
And as he placed his Grandson, down upon the floor,
He whispered, ‘May you go through life and never know of war.’
Mervyn Patrick Blackwell
