Writer

This letter-poem is dedicated to the poet Edward Thomas who died when a shell burst near to him in the Great War and sucked the oxygen from his body, destroying him without leaving a mark. He lived near me in South-West London for a large part of his life. In the quiet of his extraordinary poetry and the few diary entries he made in his war diary, we see a soul looking beyond the horror, listening for bird call. This sensibility was not sentimental. This letter is for him. One of Thomas' jobs as an officer was to censor letters. It's for my lover too who first showed me the statue which has inspired this wonderful project.

Cathy Galvin

Writer

Tooting letter to the unknown soldier

Light of the moon. Star singing for the bird.
On lanes and land larks rise, witness all.
Beyond dark-water, beer-bottles, concerns.
Comfort taken in the cold awakes the scent of bitter herb
while you censor letters.
Lie down – the linnet calls.

Random who escapes and what remains untouched
by God’s intervention. Yes – so have I heard.
And do in part believe. Heels hammer beat and home
on feet unsteady, towards the forest’s burning fall.
Shells burst the invisible –
glory to the blackbird.

This morning chill hurts my skin. Delights my mind.
Sleeping awake in spring snow. Count and record
men – equal all: though some consigned to trucks.
All that is loved and daily left behind.
Polaris, singular, shines.
Don’t know why – I could have cried.