Pilgrimage

PILGRIMAGE

A poem by Hugh Simpson (c) Ruth Simpson 1974

This poem, from a book of Poems, "Farther Fields" by the late Hugh Simpson of Newlands Farm, West Lulworth, Dorset, tells a poignant story that seems particularly appropriate. I include it here as a tribute to all those who took part in what is now often referred to as 'The Longest Day'. Hugh was the father of a good friend of mine, Bob, G3SLG. I will never forget the happy hours spent in and around Newlands Farm in my early teens 'playing' with Wireless.

Geoff Watts, G0EVW

THE JOURNEY

Across the fields I walked to Arromanches....

Down the quiet road that sloped towards the sea,

Past farms and fields that slumbered in the sun

And new built barns where stables used to be

Until the shells their roofs and rafters razed.

In deep depressions in the pastures green

The brown and spotted Norman cattle grazed....

I picked some cherries from a bending bough ;

Down through the winding street towards the square

I spat the stones like bullets in the dust

Once stained with blood from men of England there.

The town was sleeping in the midday sun,

And pigeons fluttered from the cherry trees

Scared by the echo of a distant gun.

Outside a cafe', in the courtyard shade,

A class of children chattered as they ate

Their bread and cheese ; their buzz of converse made

A contrast to silence in the square.

The beach was bare ; across the pitted sand

The gentle breakers toppled from the sea

Upon the memories of that haunted strand.

East from Le Hamel, where the Dorsets came,

A little girl ran, dragging with her spade

Where smoke and sudden death and spitting flame

Once had their hour ; where with a shuttered eye

The gaunt grey houses stood, unwelcoming

Those sick brave men who did not want to die ;

who struggled through the surf, and clenched their hands

On rifle butts, and with leaden feet

Passed through the nightmare of those cluttered sands.

I turned, and as I walked towards the square,

Past the brown and rusted hulks of Churchills dream,

I saw, within a pool, was lying there

A shaft of human bone, that dragging tide

And recent storms has sifted from the sand.

I picked it up, and as I tried to hide

It in my coat, there crowded round the pool

A dozen children dancing with delight

To be upon the sand, and free from school.

The boys and girls came running to the sea.

Their faces shining with the summer sun

And in their eyes a sea-love ecstasy,

A joy untold ; they cried a welcome to

Unshaven weary men and carrier crew

Who turned the key to end those prison years,

And loosed the shackles of their fathers chains

That tyranny had forged, with blood and tears.

Their flags were flying in the sea borne breeze....

I left Port Winston - where once had begun

The turning of the lock by freedoms keys -

With Europe's children playing in the sun.

THE RETURN

With bag and spade I climbed the cliff-top hill

Of Hambury, upon whose summit still

The barrowed bones of ancient history lie.

I dug a spit, and placed below the turf

The bone that I had borne to English earth.

And then, eastwards, came a flash of light -

The morning sun escaping from the night,

On fire with freedom, rolled across the sea,

And colour, light and warmth encircled me.

And so, on the beach at Weymouth or Dinard, or where you will,

The endless song of the saving sea beats out their memory still.

And Rachel, the girl from Israel - black hair and Semitic nose -

Can play in the sun with the German Gretchen, and Mary the English rose,

With never a dream of that terrible dawn when the Longest Day had begun

So that all through the morning and afternoon, the world could play in the sun.