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It was my granddad's funeral at the weekend - the first of my grandparents to die. He was 83 and had been ill for a long time, so this is no tragedy: but it has still left me feeling very sad.
He had a pretty amazing life. He was South African and fought in WWII all the way up the East coast of Africa until he was captured by the Italians in Egypt. He was a POW for six months until the Italians capitulated: after this he and other POWs roamed the Italian countryside for three months, before being recaptured by the Germans and put to work in Stalag II. After the war he was taken to hospital in Britain suffering from malaria: he got better, started going dancing, and met my gran. Six weeks later they got married, and went back to South Africa to live. In 1948 the first apartheid laws were enacted and once my mum was born they all emigrated to Britain.
Then the story gets 'dull': my grandad didn't fight in any more wars, but just concentrated on his allotment and being a good dad (and soon enough a good grandfather). This is how I'll remember him.
The funeral was very nice and, as part of it, my sister read out a poem I'd written for him. It's about the gardening rather than the heroic side of him. I decide to post it in here.
*****
The Gardener
The blinds across the greenhouse stay still and dimmed and drawn
And the soil takes to muttering about the absent dawn.
The vegetables start a shivering and the vines are left as thorns
A single whisper chills this plot: the gardener has gone.
The frost has never seemed this deep, the furrow not so long,
The earth has never looked this bleak, the sun so weak and wan.
Because, without his frowning fingers, the seeds forget what they have learned,
And without his back and shovel, the sods stay clods unturned.
But from this fallow winter come the strong, strong hands of spring,
Which, lifting up the crop he’s left, feed mouths that talk and sing.
He had a pretty amazing life. He was South African and fought in WWII all the way up the East coast of Africa until he was captured by the Italians in Egypt. He was a POW for six months until the Italians capitulated: after this he and other POWs roamed the Italian countryside for three months, before being recaptured by the Germans and put to work in Stalag II. After the war he was taken to hospital in Britain suffering from malaria: he got better, started going dancing, and met my gran. Six weeks later they got married, and went back to South Africa to live. In 1948 the first apartheid laws were enacted and once my mum was born they all emigrated to Britain.
Then the story gets 'dull': my grandad didn't fight in any more wars, but just concentrated on his allotment and being a good dad (and soon enough a good grandfather). This is how I'll remember him.
The funeral was very nice and, as part of it, my sister read out a poem I'd written for him. It's about the gardening rather than the heroic side of him. I decide to post it in here.
*****
The Gardener
The blinds across the greenhouse stay still and dimmed and drawn
And the soil takes to muttering about the absent dawn.
The vegetables start a shivering and the vines are left as thorns
A single whisper chills this plot: the gardener has gone.
The frost has never seemed this deep, the furrow not so long,
The earth has never looked this bleak, the sun so weak and wan.
Because, without his frowning fingers, the seeds forget what they have learned,
And without his back and shovel, the sods stay clods unturned.
But from this fallow winter come the strong, strong hands of spring,
Which, lifting up the crop he’s left, feed mouths that talk and sing.
Page:
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It was my granddad's funeral at the weekend - the first of my grandparents to die. He was 83 and had been ill for a long time, so this is no tragedy: but it has still left me feeling very sad.
He had a pretty amazing life. He was South African and fought in WWII all the way up the East coast of Africa until he was captured by the Italians in Egypt. He was a POW for six months until the Italians capitulated: after this he and other POWs roamed the Italian countryside for three months, before being recaptured by the Germans and put to work in Stalag II. After the war he was taken to hospital in Britain suffering from malaria: he got better, started going dancing, and met my gran. Six weeks later they got married, and went back to South Africa to live. In 1948 the first apartheid laws were enacted and once my mum was born they all emigrated to Britain.
Then the story gets 'dull': my grandad didn't fight in any more wars, but just concentrated on his allotment and being a good dad (and soon enough a good grandfather). This is how I'll remember him.
The funeral was very nice and, as part of it, my sister read out a poem I'd written for him. It's about the gardening rather than the heroic side of him. I decide to post it in here.
*****
The Gardener
The blinds across the greenhouse stay still and dimmed and drawn
And the soil takes to muttering about the absent dawn.
The vegetables start a shivering and the vines are left as thorns
A single whisper chills this plot: the gardener has gone.
The frost has never seemed this deep, the furrow not so long,
The earth has never looked this bleak, the sun so weak and wan.
Because, without his frowning fingers, the seeds forget what they have learned,
And without his back and shovel, the sods stay clods unturned.
But from this fallow winter come the strong, strong hands of spring,
Which, lifting up the crop he’s left, feed mouths that talk and sing.
He had a pretty amazing life. He was South African and fought in WWII all the way up the East coast of Africa until he was captured by the Italians in Egypt. He was a POW for six months until the Italians capitulated: after this he and other POWs roamed the Italian countryside for three months, before being recaptured by the Germans and put to work in Stalag II. After the war he was taken to hospital in Britain suffering from malaria: he got better, started going dancing, and met my gran. Six weeks later they got married, and went back to South Africa to live. In 1948 the first apartheid laws were enacted and once my mum was born they all emigrated to Britain.
Then the story gets 'dull': my grandad didn't fight in any more wars, but just concentrated on his allotment and being a good dad (and soon enough a good grandfather). This is how I'll remember him.
The funeral was very nice and, as part of it, my sister read out a poem I'd written for him. It's about the gardening rather than the heroic side of him. I decide to post it in here.
*****
The Gardener
The blinds across the greenhouse stay still and dimmed and drawn
And the soil takes to muttering about the absent dawn.
The vegetables start a shivering and the vines are left as thorns
A single whisper chills this plot: the gardener has gone.
The frost has never seemed this deep, the furrow not so long,
The earth has never looked this bleak, the sun so weak and wan.
Because, without his frowning fingers, the seeds forget what they have learned,
And without his back and shovel, the sods stay clods unturned.
But from this fallow winter come the strong, strong hands of spring,
Which, lifting up the crop he’s left, feed mouths that talk and sing.
Page: