The batsman of the Somme

by Marie Marshall

I have a mad desire to catch
the pomegranate that I see
mid-arcing in the winter air
or with a willow bat despatch
it high above the English lea
to drop beyond the boundary there

But I am deep inside my trench
and in the time it takes a breath
though that may ape eternity
the pomegranate’s fatal wrench
will bear me past the bourn of death
no Ceres waits for spring and me


A friend reminded me of the above poem which I wrote in 2007. It is, of course, a poem about the First World War and about ninety years too late, but I felt it was worth sharing with my readers. New friends will perhaps not realise that I write – or used to write – much that rhymed and scanned. I do not believe in the Chinese walls that are erected to separate poetry from poetry.