Sorry for the silence last week, I was away from my laptop and once I got home in the evening and cooked dinner I was too tired to write. Suffice it to say I had a good fulfilling week, followed by a wonderful weekend playing with my beautiful granddaughter and taken to see Warhorse, a Christmas present from last year after eight months eager anticipation. If you haven't seen the staged version of warhorse you really should try, the splendid puppetry along with the simplicity of the sets was magnificent. Thank you to my daughter and son in law for a lovely present. Being given a present that you can spend months anticipating and then fully enjoy is lovely, Christmas before last my son gave my daughter and I a splendid day at a local spa, just some lovely special time for the two of us. I am truly blessed with a lovely family.
Back to War Horse, Michael Morpurgo's book and stage play brilliantly depicts the futility of the first world war and the terrible waste of life, both human and animal,and the horses ability to adapt his life purely for survival and his love of his owner. Rather than give you an excerpt for Michael Morpurgo's book, I have taken a poem by Steven Cooke, but would urge you to go out and get a copy of Michael's book and or see the play.
Until tomorrow, I hope your day will be wonderful, wherever in the world you are.
War Horse (Steven Cooke)
(In memory of the 3 million horses killed in War)
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders field
His rider glorious in his regalia, sword in hand
He was his master now, and the horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple, their bond complete
His last feed, bathed in a red sun, which
Hovered above the morning mist hiding yesterday’s sin,
For this is the place where death is king and reason is lost
This day, where man throws sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed, and discarded,
To blow away into the winds of time,
Recorded by nations into the ledgers of loss,
For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla
Their Trust, in man, galloping where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.
This place, Mans, ultimate betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared, Eyes wide, steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the next stride
Then the Stumble, a moment’s recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck, then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his brow, the last kindness.
A wavered shot ushers his life away, like so many before,
No one will weep for you my War horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man, left to rot in Flanders field
But for those precious minutes, he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,
Galloped blindly through the death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No equal, never forget,
For it is the shame of a nation, a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god
No glory here, only an empty cup left on the altar of insanity.
Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent Beast
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