Pear Tree Green - Glimpses of My Father

,Peartree Green (Glimpses of my Father)
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On that morning a mad March wind stalked and baulked our progress at every stride,
cavorting with the dinghies in the harbour,forcing them first to port, then over on a starboard gybe
As he'd say, "Life's like that it twists and turns,
one step forward then one back, maybe try a different tack.
make the sails do their work leave the sheets take the strain."
My father's sayings echo again around my brain.
To a nautical heritage he made claim.
" You see salt-water runs in my veins,
as it does in shipping lanes."
Today only the quick are out on the Water their helmsmen tacking to and fro,
shouting "Gybe!" and "Lee-ho!"
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On drawing up at Itchen's riverside Park we disembarked
setting out on Shanks' pony
walking slowly, thinking "If only--"
Recalling that officer's fateful testimony
"Sir I am afraid the car stopped at the roadside
there he died." We sobbed and cried.
"Apparently he did expire,
whilst engaged in fixing a flat tyre."
He learned to drive at sixty-five but never exceeded fifty.
He drove with pride his chosen ride, a Ford considered thrifty
"Relax,lifes not a race for sure there is no disgrace
in taking a more measured pace"
On Peartree Green young folk come and go playing Custer and Geronimo
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Once on the Green putting our best foot forward
we paced onward and upward.
Pale-faced with glazed eyes we traced the route up the rise.
Overhead screeching seabirds swoop and circle
searching for that tastey morsel
"Those scavengers never earned a crust,
life's unfair and so unjust.". Work ethics oft discussed
"Ethics? Are wickets tumbling in the cricket? Hants'll nick it."
Passers-by say"hello" and debate weather.
Windy sure, but no tornado.
--
Southampton Water acts as this port's aorta.
In olden times the rivers Itchen and Test,
marked the town's confines east and west.
reaching the summit our gaze explored
the titanic views from that ridge
Itchen's estuary and a new toll bridge
overwhich fast flowing traffic poured
"To bridge Itchen's shores between the wars,
we called on ferrymen with trusty oars"
Beyond lies the city, the Civic Centre clock,
hotels, office blocks,cruise liners in the docks
Once off Cowes he cried ,
"Look the Needles rocks, bless my socks I see Uffa Fox."
The aces of the Schneider races put aircraft through their paces
- here seaplanes come and go their pilots shouting tally ho
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At Itchen Ferry on Saturday nights
the girls chewed tobacco the boys they did fight.
For heavyweight bouts New York was the scene.
Interest was great betting was keen.
The result would come via Marconi wire
now all the town's folk wait for a rocket to fire
From this ridge the town criers signals could surely be seen.
Would the flare show for Joe Louis -red or Max Schmelling -green?
Astronauts playing in yellow moonglow.
"No.17 Your times up !. Come down now crew Apollo!"
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Lovestruck on a city girl,
often having no ferry fare, very nearly brought despair
True, serenading his treasure
across that river wasn't much pleasure. A mighty Missouri.
His Carmen , her name was Gwen,
had eyes set mainly for the men of British and American
Tobacco Limited, where she worked. He'd wait 'til late
by the postern gate for the exit bell
to plight his troth. To save his wrath
since she liked his passion, said it was the fashion
to first engage her father, in the rationale
"You see Jose it's not all bad, I don't want grief
just reassure my Dad , the big white chief
""Chief I love your daughter."
"Then we'll see you at the altar before you take my daughter
back across that water."
Here waiters with trays of fire-water come and go,
singing songs of Shenandoah.
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Inland is the old school where teachers Rub Penny and his wife
drilled the kid for adult life
"Learning by rote wasn't great.
I hate that chanting over of tables and dates. Tables and dates.
I preferred first to chalk it on slate"
On the fate of fathers without sons I wonder,
on the fate of sons without fathers I ponder
A darker fate befell the young Richard Parker late of this parish.
Half buried in the churchyard yonder, illegally killed with no regret.
half eaten by shipwrecked shipmates on the yacht Mignonette.
Stomach-churning. I pat the casket under my jacket.
"Son that's reassuring. so heartwarming, and only one day on from my burning."
Noon strikes. On the wind we hear a clock that chimes Watts' hymnal lines,
while in the mind celestial voices sing -
"O God our help in ages past
our help for years to come
our shelter from the icey blast
and our eternal home.
" "Hey not too fast! I'd prefer a different blast,
from those horns of the great James Last"
Did the mammoth, dinosaur, dodo really have to go?
Please stand now for tigers, elephants and buffalo
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Mastering the beautiful game became his principal aim.
Practising on the Green for hours
he had neither goalposts nets nor showers..
In his domain his skill brought fame
until heavy tackles ended his reign .
No one to blame no intent to maim, just another leg gone laim.
Poets don't always have much to show. They may have many lines to go, before they sleep
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"Life is unforgiving I need to earn my shilling. Maybe the factory will be satisfactory"
Just then his career in aviation really took off. Interesting, infact it was riveting
airplanes. "Now remember, there are only two ways to rivet a hole, right or wrong ."
A silver screen, a seabird slides serenely into the sea. No props scream
no engine roars, still sky-high this seaplane soars. R J Mitchell's dreams were given birth at Supermarine
In ballrooms the ladies come and go wherefore art thou , gigolo?
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Wartime, no time for laughter. Luftwaffe up to their usual capers, left their afters among roof rafters
Dousing incendiaries with bare hands and bags of sand
his group of volunteer firemasters
avert several big disasters.
Ignore warnings, workers at Supermarine were told,
be bold, stay at posts 'till the enemy's overhead almost
Once running to the bunkers they were targetted by Junkers diving from the sky, many died.
Couvertly he inscribed the names of pals that died inside every plane he made.
"We all prayed our pride those Mk I Spits would blow those Messerschmidts to bits."
Thousands killed, truths revealed.
Still the bells were pealed and fields were tilled again,
love finally fulfilled.
Parading perambulators, young couples come and go,
talking of precious cargo.
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We make for the Peartree church and the cemetery,
crossing a broad expanse of grasses that insanely dances
I imagine those wheatfields of Van Gogh, laid flat by repeated Mistral blows.
No crows here but the gulls. Their cacophony of monotony carries on constantly.
"Carrion! Bird food I'll never be, time to set my spirit free.
Remember, this green was my nursery, that river my artery, Southampton made love to me,
a Hampshire man I'll always be, now this earth's my sanctuary.
Dont blubber look after your Mother. Life is tough you need be made of sterner stuff"
In the ring fighters come and go though few as tough as Rocky Marciano
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Sitting on a bench I contemplate the final wrench.
Considering which befitting end I might best intend for my dearest friend ?
My eye focuses on a patchwhere spring daffodils are blooming
Sadly in my head only cricket thoughts keep looming.
Remembering once how we lost the Ashes by playing wild slashes
to the flippers bowled by that dour Aussie skipper
A short run up into my delivery stride,
now a Benaud flipper never previously tried,
will surely disperse those ashes far and wide
This his final fling, I did not expect that urn to swing
and twist and turn so much. It knocked my good lady into touch
Covered in ashes, now at my side
"That's not funny honey, it'll cost you money," my wife cried." Apologise now or perhaps you'll rather join your father.
But don't you see that mad wind's reversal hampered my dispersal. Its the wind that sinned
Grow up you're a man. Stop day dreaming of the past. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I am sorry ma'am, truly,
But life's like that, it twist and turns. One step orward then one back
Young folk come and go, they have seeds to sew
and smiles to show before they sleep.