Kate Barnwell - Poetry

Tell me of England:

Soldier to Mother


Tell me mother, of the grass

Is it cut? Is it green?

Are the currants ripe to pick?

It is cold here and damp and dull

But I am well


The flowers that grow in the garden

Are they reaching to the sun?

With warm faces that welcome the heat

It is dark here, no day from night

But I am well


Is the bread in the Aga sweet and tempting to touch?

Is the crust floured, the dough soft and buttered?

Did I bite too quickly?

I remember its taste, my tongue is wet

But I am well


Do the birds sing to wake the dawn?

Before the bells sound out across the green

And the branches swing their leaves in a breeze

My ears still hold those simple, dear tunes

I am well for it


Is there still a soft pillow for me to rest my head?

Where gentle words melt from mouths to nurture

From friends who hold fearless eyes

Their kind calls and simple rhymes

To make me well


Tell me mother, of England

Is She numb from pain? Is She pitied?

Does She ache from exhaustion and stumble to rise?

Does She sob to hear her children cry?

Destined to fight and destined to die

Does She feel so entirely bemused and alone

To know we now live in fields quite unknown

Dirt, disease, distance remote

All for the sake of our Island of hope.


I am so far from home

Lost my youth, yet stay well

But of old England

I say mother, please tell.



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Read by Crawford Logan


Ever Truly Yours