THE CHESTNUT TREE

In my home village of Blyton, there is a beautiful big horse chestnut tree right by the War Memorial, and right opposite to Rose Cottage which was the home of my great grandmother (also godmother) and my great grandfather. I was taken there as a child. On the War Memorial is the name of one of their sons, Harry, who got killed in action in WW1. He was only 19. We researched his time in the war, and what his Batallion was doing etc.and we found that he had been through some utterly horrific things. He was very brave though, and got medals posthumously. I hate war, but I became very caught up in his story, and in my great grandmother’s grief.

To sit there now, under the chestnut tree, in the sunshine, right near to Rose Cottage is so lovely. As you sit there you are looking up the hill out of the village, to where my grandparents’ farm was. On one sude of the road is the wash dyke where a Mr. C. (who was SUCH a gentleman most of the time) used to end up in every Saturday night. He would be found there every Sunday morning, rather the worse for wear!

And, sitting there is beautiful, and peaceful, yet so much sorrow went on too. It was this that inspired my very brief poem here:-

The chestnut tree
By the memorial
Gives me shade

I sit down
On the seat
Beside Rose Cottage

Thinking of heroes
Who knew mud
Blood and death