How Great Thou Art

Hard to credit it now, but there was hope there one time. Better than the trenches anyhow, that’s for sure. Some hint of light and life here, some promise of peace.

Sure men died here – no hint of a pulse in the end, had their eyelids closed down for them and yellowed sheets pulled up over their mauve moon faces. But men lived here too, came out of here alive, I mean, a bit worse for wear usually of course but with hearts and heads intact for the most part and with their spirits still sailing too.

That was the best of it, the way those spirits could keep on sailing ahead despite everything – a wink for the nurse, a nod for the priest, a tear for the dead. A laugh and a joke on the best of days and sometimes even a song.

Jack Plaidy, there’s a man now I’ll never forget. The way he’d sit up in bed, a full ginger head on him and focus his voice towards the south-facing window, casting it off to the skyline as good as any songbird. ‘How Great Thou Art’ he sang that one with feeling, ferocious feeling. ‘Oh Lord my God when I in breathless wonder….’ we heard those words coming up from the tips of his toes….

Mr Moon

They say it’s made of cheese – the moon.
I’m not so sure.
I see a lot more bounty in it.

They say a man lives on the moon.
A matinee idol of a man.
The kind the world revolves around.

They say for all his privilege, he’s prone to moods, this man.
Bucking and baying with the best of them.
Waxing and waning with the worst of them.

They point out highs – the way he lights up lovers eyes,
and lows – the way he rips apart the tides.
They never mention equilibrium or balance or poise.
They never look into Mr Moon’ s eyes.

They don’t love Old Man Moon the way I do.
I’m sure of it…