For Joseph William whose journey back
Into the Old World brought us light …
October 29, 2001
If all the years that have ever been could be packed in a suitcase,then the year when this story begins would seem like yesterday. But really it beings like this.
Into the Old World brought us light …
October 29, 2001
If all the years that have ever been could be packed in a suitcase,then the year when this story begins would seem like yesterday. But really it beings like this.
Many years ago . . .
As one of Gramma Gladys' 50 grandchildren, I grew up 'knowing' Joseph. I hope you enjoy reading ... as much as I enjoyed writing about him. Here is a portion of 'Remembering Joseph'...
One day, when Joseph was 21, word came – the way that word
came in those days – written on paper, folded in envelopes,
stuffed into canvas sacks, tossed onto trains
that travel on straight steel tracks
Through thick fir
through tall hemlock
to the foot of Colpton hill where the old house stands.
Opening the sack.
Opening the envelope.
Opening the paper.
The words spill out that will change his world forever.
WAR.
In strange lands across the ocean – an ocean he has never seen –
beyond the bog and the meadow – beyond the fir and the hemlock
and the hazelnuts roasted brown by the sun.
An ocean Joseph has never seen.
And yet, on this first strange night – the night he knows
his world has been broken – Joseph can hear its rumbling.
Its grey roar echoes in his bones.
The growling night sound of the wild grey ocean
that centuries before had washed his forefathers
and foremothers home, searching
on this broad hemlock shore.
This night, its centuries-old roar is calling his name.
Calling him out from his sisters and brothers.
From the old house on top of the Colpton hill.
From the small church – the pleasant river.
Kissing the worried brow of his mother. The sharp
colours of autumn woodland.
War on the ocean.
War in the air.
As he goes, the trees are shedding their brilliant tears
– until only their stark black limbs remain.
Bleak November.
To the roaring grey ocean. It remembers his name.
War on the ocean.
War in the air.
Long thin lines of khaki soldiers.
Drift away in the November air.
Along the strange Halifax streets
in the mist
in the morning.
Grey hulls of troop ships in the bleakest November.
War on the ocean.
War in the air.
Joseph watches. The land slips away.
Only the ocean. Endless grey ocean.
Silently, stealthily, the land slips away.
Not one soldier breathes. Not one sound.
In the fog, in the mist,
the sharp word unspoken cuts
at the base of his throat
beneath the khaki green-grey.
Only the ocean.
Endless wild ocean.
In the old house on top of Colpton hill, hope lives on.
1942 turns into 1943.
In the old house on the hill,
Joseph’s mother holds him each night
in her heart – and knows
the war will soon be over.
The Christmas tree stood until February that year
– dreaming he would soon be home. And its leaves
turned dry and rusty red.
Winter took off its coat.
In Sicily, war cut its scars into the earth.
And spring spilled sweet almond and wild olives on
the mountaintops. At night, the wind from the ocean
– the wind sang its lullaby with the canvas of the tent.
Joseph lays his head on the Sicilian earth
and smells the sweet scent of mayflowers.
Foot – weary foot – thousands of feet push
across the rivers, over the hot dust of villages
where foreign words break without meaning
across their ears. Mile after mile,
under summer’s scorching sun.
As one of Gramma Gladys' 50 grandchildren, I grew up 'knowing' Joseph. I hope you enjoy reading ... as much as I enjoyed writing about him. Here is a portion of 'Remembering Joseph'...
One day, when Joseph was 21, word came – the way that word
came in those days – written on paper, folded in envelopes,
stuffed into canvas sacks, tossed onto trains
that travel on straight steel tracks
Through thick fir
through tall hemlock
to the foot of Colpton hill where the old house stands.
Opening the sack.
Opening the envelope.
Opening the paper.
The words spill out that will change his world forever.
WAR.
In strange lands across the ocean – an ocean he has never seen –
beyond the bog and the meadow – beyond the fir and the hemlock
and the hazelnuts roasted brown by the sun.
An ocean Joseph has never seen.
And yet, on this first strange night – the night he knows
his world has been broken – Joseph can hear its rumbling.
Its grey roar echoes in his bones.
The growling night sound of the wild grey ocean
that centuries before had washed his forefathers
and foremothers home, searching
on this broad hemlock shore.
This night, its centuries-old roar is calling his name.
Calling him out from his sisters and brothers.
From the old house on top of the Colpton hill.
From the small church – the pleasant river.
Kissing the worried brow of his mother. The sharp
colours of autumn woodland.
War on the ocean.
War in the air.
As he goes, the trees are shedding their brilliant tears
– until only their stark black limbs remain.
Bleak November.
To the roaring grey ocean. It remembers his name.
War on the ocean.
War in the air.
Long thin lines of khaki soldiers.
Drift away in the November air.
Along the strange Halifax streets
in the mist
in the morning.
Grey hulls of troop ships in the bleakest November.
War on the ocean.
War in the air.
Joseph watches. The land slips away.
Only the ocean. Endless grey ocean.
Silently, stealthily, the land slips away.
Not one soldier breathes. Not one sound.
In the fog, in the mist,
the sharp word unspoken cuts
at the base of his throat
beneath the khaki green-grey.
Only the ocean.
Endless wild ocean.
In the old house on top of Colpton hill, hope lives on.
1942 turns into 1943.
In the old house on the hill,
Joseph’s mother holds him each night
in her heart – and knows
the war will soon be over.
The Christmas tree stood until February that year
– dreaming he would soon be home. And its leaves
turned dry and rusty red.
Winter took off its coat.
In Sicily, war cut its scars into the earth.
And spring spilled sweet almond and wild olives on
the mountaintops. At night, the wind from the ocean
– the wind sang its lullaby with the canvas of the tent.
Joseph lays his head on the Sicilian earth
and smells the sweet scent of mayflowers.
Foot – weary foot – thousands of feet push
across the rivers, over the hot dust of villages
where foreign words break without meaning
across their ears. Mile after mile,
under summer’s scorching sun.
Behind them, peace anoints the hilltops.
Across the ocean, the old house at the top of
Colpton hill gathers summer in her hayfields.
Tall timothy. Thick sweet clover.
Brothers and sisters – William and Gertrude
– Jean and Simeon – Bertha and Ernest
– Norman, Walter and Lillian –
gather it in. Winter feed for the cattle.
Joseph’s mother anoints the stubble grass with her prayers.
Crossing the wild Sicilian waters, on the move again
the long thin line of khaki soldiers moving onward,
moving upward. Through the winding rocks
and treachery of narrow coastal paths written
in the mud of bleak sky November.
Beyond abandoned vineyards, olive groves
broken by the promise of winter.
Inch by treacherous inch.
At night, Joseph listens to the ocean wind
howling its soliloquy and writes:
“The fellows and I have been okay. Tell Mother I am all right and give her my love. The war is almost over. We will be back in England soon.”
On the road to Orotona,
he lays down his life.
Across the ocean, the old house at the top of
Colpton hill gathers summer in her hayfields.
Tall timothy. Thick sweet clover.
Brothers and sisters – William and Gertrude
– Jean and Simeon – Bertha and Ernest
– Norman, Walter and Lillian –
gather it in. Winter feed for the cattle.
Joseph’s mother anoints the stubble grass with her prayers.
Crossing the wild Sicilian waters, on the move again
the long thin line of khaki soldiers moving onward,
moving upward. Through the winding rocks
and treachery of narrow coastal paths written
in the mud of bleak sky November.
Beyond abandoned vineyards, olive groves
broken by the promise of winter.
Inch by treacherous inch.
At night, Joseph listens to the ocean wind
howling its soliloquy and writes:
“The fellows and I have been okay. Tell Mother I am all right and give her my love. The war is almost over. We will be back in England soon.”
On the road to Orotona,
he lays down his life.
Father, we give into your keeping –
Joseph – William – Colp.
In the old white house on top of
Colpton hill, his mother is weeping.
His mother hung his picture on the wall beside her bed.
Through the long nights when the winter wind howled
and wailed around the ice shed, its thin fingers reaching
into the old house’s crannies and crevices
through the long summer nights when the scent of
tall timothy and wild pea and sweet clover
slipped quietly around her bed
Joseph kept his quiet watch.
His gentle eyes tell her that he remembers.
The small clutch of campaign medals catch
the occasional glint of moonbeams. Sometimes
her wakeful ears can almost hear the faintest
whisper from walls that once held his voice.
Years become decades. Still his gentle smile keeps watch.
New young voices slip and skip
around the walls of the old house.
20 – 30 – then 40 grandchildren and more.
Not one needs to ask. They know.
Joseph has always been there.
In the small church by the pleasant river,
his name was etched wreathed by the bright
colours that God had created.
His name was placed among the silver chalice,
the quiet pews and the hushed organ that
stands continually in God’s presence.
And each November, deft fingers work bright poppies
– blood-red poppies – into the moss-green wreath
to place in the silence of the cenotaph.
And the grey sky weeps new tears.
November turns into April.
And April turns into September.
In the old house on Colpton hill, his brothers
and sisters remember. Their hair is grey now.
Time has wrinkled their brow and
their bones have grown weak.
Decade by decade – year after year –
his gentle eyes and quiet smile tell new
generations of nieces and nephews
the sad whispers of war –
and a quiet gratitude
for a price that
has been paid.
The War Department etched his name in gilt and
blue and scarlet red in a Book of Remembrance.
In the quiet government halls
in a cabinet
in a folder
in black ink,
the list of all he owned –
A small coin purse
A New Testament
Photos of his family
A gentle smile.
In the old house on Colpton hill, his gentle
smile still hangs on the wall.
By the Pleasant River, the small church hugs
inside itself quiet words of memory.
Far away across the ocean, in the cemetery
by Moro River, his name is still written
in the hard grey stone.
But Joseph is not here.
He has gone home.
20 – 30 – then 40 grandchildren and more.
Not one needs to ask. They know.
Joseph has always been there.
In the small church by the pleasant river,
his name was etched wreathed by the bright
colours that God had created.
His name was placed among the silver chalice,
the quiet pews and the hushed organ that
stands continually in God’s presence.
And each November, deft fingers work bright poppies
– blood-red poppies – into the moss-green wreath
to place in the silence of the cenotaph.
And the grey sky weeps new tears.
November turns into April.
And April turns into September.
In the old house on Colpton hill, his brothers
and sisters remember. Their hair is grey now.
Time has wrinkled their brow and
their bones have grown weak.
Decade by decade – year after year –
his gentle eyes and quiet smile tell new
generations of nieces and nephews
the sad whispers of war –
and a quiet gratitude
for a price that
has been paid.
The War Department etched his name in gilt and
blue and scarlet red in a Book of Remembrance.
In the quiet government halls
in a cabinet
in a folder
in black ink,
the list of all he owned –
A small coin purse
A New Testament
Photos of his family
A gentle smile.
In the old house on Colpton hill, his gentle
smile still hangs on the wall.
By the Pleasant River, the small church hugs
inside itself quiet words of memory.
Far away across the ocean, in the cemetery
by Moro River, his name is still written
in the hard grey stone.
But Joseph is not here.
He has gone home.
