June Fellows 1938-2018

My mum passed away last Sunday, 13 years to the day after my dad.

I can't think of a more fitting tribute on this blog than to post two poems by my dad written for, and to, her.

I Wish I'd Been The One To Say

I Wish I'd Been The One To Say
"Could I but compare thee to a summer's day"
Or, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet"
Or "Blazing fire and Christmas treat"
Or, "The curlew tolls the knell of parting day"
But I'm not a Shakespeare or a Shelley or Gray
I cannot write in phrases fine
Or put in words these thoughts of mine
That tell from deep within my heart a feeling true
That says "My dear I do love you"
So I, with these few faltering sentences will say
May every blessing God can give be yours my dear today.

J.E.Fellows 1979

To June - The Year of 1976

Winter

             Out in the cold
             Helping the old
             Keeping the home in order
             Up late at night
             Making things right
             For your husband, your son and your daughter

Spring

             Still you went out
             Going about
             Spreading your love all around
             We, in your care
             Found love so rare
             A better friend could not be found

Summer

             Someone in need?
             You went with speed
             Serving and caring for others
             Forgoing rest
             Giving your best
             To mums, dads, sisters and brothers

Autumn

             Living your life
             Mother and wife
             When illness your family struck
             Still you did smile
             Throughout your trial
             Showing your courage and pluck

Christmas

             The year has passed
             All's well at last
             Christmas has come round again
             May it bring peace
             Joys that won't cease
             And health to banish all pain

             What can we do
             To show to you
             Our love for all you have done
             Not to exclude
             The gratitude
             Of daughter, husband and son

             We give of our gifts
             Hoping they lift
             The clouds of midwinter gloom
             May they be too
             Special to you
             In your life may they find room

The future

             Things may look black
             As you look back
             The future? It's not ours to know
             But it will be bright
             It'll work out alright
             Trusting in God as you go

             And in his Son
             God's Gift to man
             At Christmas a long time ago
             Gifts from our heart
             Are but a part
             Of His love, to us, here below

This poem was enclosed in June's Christmas presents from Jill, Tim and myself with our love.

J.E.Fellows December 25th 1976

Heritage Walk

I wrote this as a response poem to my own attack on England's cultural failings in "Back To Blighty" - the walk was from Pleasley Pit to Hardwick Hall last August.


Heritage Walk

England, when your sky clears
and the warm August sun melts our sorrow
there is nowhere so beautiful.
To take a walk and be reminded
of your careless elegance;
where the constant duality of your heritage
is laid bare.

Opening where miners once plied their trade
Energy expended and conveyed
upwards and outwards;
now no signs remain underfoot
of that feverish endeavour.
Just the crunch of shoe on gravel
and clip and clop of iron hoof.

To the path once laid with rail and sleeper
engine hauling, dark cargo, clanging,
steam blowing through cutting and 
trailing along high embankment;
now replete with cyclists and walkers, riders,
hounds and owners of different sizes.
A flurry of hellos and good mornings,
or is it afternoon? Smiles abounding
in the rarest of clement days
where the black dog sniffs,
is called, and runs with lolling tongue
flailing in its wake.

The country lane, winding, quiet with
occasional unwelcome interruption
of four wheel drive or disorientated hatchback;
Blackberries, teasing but not ready
for plucking - two weeks or maybe less
for the plump flesh to be ours.

In the cooling arms of the woodland path
where the sunlight probes the thick canopy
and casts dappled light onto dusty forest floor.
Flickering dart of Cabbage White,
lazy drunken weave of bumble bee;
hornet hovering as if observing
the orange fungus, splattered like paint
on the thick fallen branch;
leaves, roots, twigs, and stones
distract us from the impending neatness
of Bess's Vanity.

Stepping through the pastel blue gate;
manicured lawns are legally trespassed
by those who once
would only be permitted there
as workers.
Families play - small bat, small stumps;
small boy, long run-up; releases the ball
but without the required accuracy;
Picnics, ice-creams under the eye of the mighty hall,
its glassed walls rising as rose the engine house
less than three miles distant.

Yet these two places that are so different
are so intrinsically woven into
each others and England's fabric;
We, the commoners, have them in common;
we hold them in our English heart and embrace,
along with them, our contrary heritage.

Oh England, if only on every day
could your warmth so melt our sorrow.

Tim Fellows August 2017

Dorcas

The story of the vengeful spurned (and dead) lover is very common in folklore. This mining story is based on a Gloucestershire coal mining legend (see here) that itself probably originated in the tin mines of Cornwall. Did you know that Gloucestershire had mines? The last full mine closed in 1949 but there was a further attempt to extract coal in the early 60s but it was abandoned. Perhaps Dorcas is still down there waiting to be freed by fracking. 

Dorcas

Dorcas loved a mining lad
he was her heart and soul
His hair was black, his eyes were blue
and he dug the black, black coal

She watched for him both day and night
Her heart she could not control
His skin was fair, his body strong
and he dug the black, black coal

One summer's day, her mind made up
she made some sweet fruit roll
Took some for him to eat that day
when he'd hewn the black, black coal

Happy was she as she saw him there
as he, from his work, did stroll
But her heart was by a hammer struck
just like the black, black coal

When she saw him with another girl
their hands entwined and whole
her spirit crushed and darkened,
like the shattered shards of coal

Straight to the mine did Dorcas go
she heard the church bell toll
as she threw herself into the shaft
to be one with the black, black coal

The miner lad would hew no more
for no-one could cajole
him back into that dreadful place
to dig the black, black coal

But other miners down that pit
would swear upon their soul
that they heard Dorcas singing
in the dark of the black, black coal

"Oh where, oh where's my mining lad
I need him to console
my trapped and wounded spirit
locked in the black, black coal"

"I'll forgive him and I'll leave this place
if you bring him to this hole
and I'll take him to eternal rest
away from the black, black coal"

But nothing would persuade that boy
to be a human mole
to lose his life to the angry ghost
who haunts the black, black coal

Tim Fellows 2017

Resurrection

Soldiers in a mass grave 1916 By Hermann Rex (1884-1937)

Resurrection

When he came back no fanfare was sounded
The heads turned away, or just stared straight past
the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs
a gift of warfare; from the bombs and gas
that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded
and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday dawned just like any other
in the stink and mud they slogged to the line
they stood no chance; they were sacrificed lambs
who were nailed to their cross; a mandate divine
to brother lying in death with brother
that cursed the living and howled with the damned

He died on that Friday; they brought him back
and he lay in bed a year and two days
He limped from his sick bed and dimly saw
the people they died for; so drab and gray
hiding behind the old Union Jack
that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday
when he hobbled back to his silent town
but he could not pass through those hallowed doors
where the statue shone with its holy crown
of thorns; He turned his damaged eyes away
and left there to fight his own private war

Tim Fellows Easter 2018

Untitled by Willy Jaeckel [Public domain]

For those interested, here are three drafts. The final version was switched to 3rd person on the suggestion of Ian Parks and after a day or two of reading and re-reading I decided it was more appropriate.

Original

When I came back no fanfare was sounded

The heads turned away, or just stared straight past

the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs

a gift of warfare; from the bombs and gas

that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded

and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday came just like any other

in the stink and mud we slogged to the line

we stood no chance; we were sacrificed lambs

who were nailed to our cross; a portent divine

where brother lay in death with his brother

and the news was relayed through telegrams

I died on that Friday; they brought me back

and I lay in bed a year and two days

I limped from the hospital where I saw

the people I fought for were drab and grey

hiding behind the old Union Jack

that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday

when I hobbled back to my silent town

but I could not go through those wooden doors

where the statue shone with its holy crown

of thorns; I turned my damaged eyes away

and left there to fight my own private war


Draft #1

When I came back home no fanfare sounded

The heads turned away, or just stared straight past

the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs

a gift of warfare from the bombs and gas

that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded

and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday dawned just like any other

in the stink and mud we slogged to the line

we stood no chance; we were sacrificed lambs

who were nailed to our cross; a mandate divine

for brother met in death with his brother

that cursed the living and howled with the damned

I died on that Friday; they brought me back

and I hid my soul a year and two days

I limped from my sick bed and dimly saw

the people they died for; so drab and grey,

hiding behind the old Union Jack

that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday

when I hobbled back to my silent town

but I could not pass through those hallowed doors

where the statue shone with its holy crown

of thorns; I turned my damaged eyes away

and departed to fight a private war

Draft #2

When I came back no fanfare was sounded
The heads turned away, or just stared straight past
the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs
a gift of warfare; from the bombs and gas
that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded
and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday dawned just like any other
in the stink and mud we slogged to the line
we stood no chance; we were sacrificed lambs
who were nailed to our cross; a mandate divine
for brother met in death with his brother
that cursed the living and howled with the damned

I died on that Friday; they brought me back
and I lay in bed a year and two days
I limped from my sick bed and dimly saw
the people they died for were drab and gray
hiding behind the old Union Jack
that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday
when I hobbled back to my silent town
but I could not pass through those hallowed doors
where the statue shone with its holy crown
of thorns; I turned my damaged eyes away
and left to fight my own private war