I never met you
but can imagine you
stood there even now
in your uniform
with your slightly bent cap.
 
I never looked up at you
growing up
and said with a wide eyed
innoncence
you were almost
as a big as a tree
(All 6 foot 4 of you).
 
Never served beside you
through the mud in Burma
which must have been
hell to crawl through
before being transferred
possibly against your choice to India,
where I like to think
you imagined
you were an explorer
stepping into the unknown.
 
Never marched alongside you
every morning
and at night
as part of the fullisers
or drank a warm beer
with you
on the rare occasion
you managed to rest.
 
I wasn’t there
when you went back there
for that final time
and never heard you say
‘I’ll write soon’
and you letter
only arrived
after you had gone.
 
I was told
you died like a man
leading your men
into the gates
of the machine guns
which cut you down
like the charge
of the light brigade
and passed on
so others lived
to fight another day.
 
I never met you
but can imagine you stood there
in your uniform
even though
we never met,

but I can taste your thoughts
right up until the end
into the embrace of shadows.
 
Percy Henry Nicholson.
 

1918 - 1943

 

Percy Henry Nicholson.
 
My Uncle.
 
1918 - 1943

 

 

A short video of these performed with Jeffarama in August 2014 can be seen here