War Memorial (November,1962: Two Weeks After The ‘cuba Crisis') Poem by Kevin Cowdall

‘...the nature of war consisteth not in actual fighting,
but in the known disposition thereto during all the time
there is no assurance to the contrary'.
Thomas Hobbs - Leviathan


It is only a small memorial -
then it is only a small village.
There are forty-six names in all;
each precisely carved into the granite plinth -
an alphabetical index of unwarranted waste.

My grandfather's name
appears half-way down the first list:
‘Killed In Action - September,1917'
They never found his body -
lost, they said, amid the mud
of some corner of a foreign field.

The second role is shorter and my father,
a captain, is listed fifth from the top.
I cannot remember him, of course, only a
faceless figure in uniform bending over me.
I was four when the telegram arrived,
too young to understand my mother's grief,
but old enough to help wipe away her tears.

I have a photograph of the two;
a faded, sepia-tinged picture,
dog-eared and creased with age.
It shows them - my grandfather in his uniform,
my father, aged five, upon his knee -
proud faces set as they gazed
in to the camera's eye.

I left the village several years ago,
moving to the city, but I return
to the memorial each November.
It is weather-worn and has
grown grimy over the years,
though the names can still be read
by those who wish to remember.

I have a son of my own now.
He is five and fascinated
by the old photograph.
Next year, I may take him with me
to the village to see the memorial.
I think it right that he should know of such things,
that he learn reality -
that guns are not just toys
and bombs vivid noises
from a child's imagination.

One day, he may have sons of his own.