Botcherby Mill

by | Apr 18, 2017 | Poetry | 0 comments

Across the river and up the hill
The maw of war more sons would kill.
As the Cherry Blossom sheds its bloom
The flower of youth would fade too soon.
As the cogs in time would age and rust
The dreams of men crumble to dust.
At Charlotte Terrace-they lost four sons
The millstone in the corn mill turns.
The Littles, at The Grange, would
bear their loss
Their sacrifice too great a cost.
Did James fashion a coffin for his son-
The Petteril ever onward runs.
As songbirds sing to welcome day
The magpie listens for its prey.
With stones, with rudely-fashioned toys
Rolly and Joseph, played here as boys.
The floods the racemill choked with silt
Cold bayonets bloodied to the hilt…
While curled up safely in their bed
The ravens circled overhead.
And there’s an eerie, ghostly sight-
The limewashed-walls seem lit by night
One spark could set the dust on fire
Dry timbers crackling like a pyre.
By the trickling racemill -boys’ voices heard
The echoes of the Great War’s dead…


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