大象传媒

This story was added to the People's War Site by a volunteer from Radio Newcastle on behalf of Vera Kulkarni. Vera Kulkarni is fully aware of the site's terms and conditions, and this story was added to the site with her permission.

The Voices of Whinfield

Old Black Combe, the granite mountain
nudged the farm and sheltered us
from the cold northern breeze.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
sash windows faced the Duddon
a vista of hills, of river and sea.
At four-o-clock in the cobbled yard
I helped to feed the poultry.
Rhode Island reds scrathed for seeds
Aylesbury ducks for maize and kitchen scraps.

When Mother lit the paraffin lamp
she knitted stockings in the glow
for the village lads gone off to war.
From a biscuit tin on the mantleshelf
Lord Kitchener pointed a finger.
Cast a chilling shadow.
"Your King and country need you."
Black curtains drawn, we sat around the fire
warmed ourselves with jokes and far-fetched tales
as Father held the yarn and smoked tobacco.

At Eastertime, we boiled our eggs for ages;
covered them with petals of whin,
with onion skins, layer on layer,
brown as wrapping paper.
I hear them crackling yet.
We dressed in siren suits and pixie hoods
to pick September bilberries on the fell
and search the prickly hedge for hips
for holly and ivy. They killed a goose
spread the grease on itchy chilblained feet.
On Christmas Eve we decked a sapling fir.

Whinfield, now your stones are blown to dust
Not a feather stirs.
No more scent of burning logs,
freshley baked loaves. No clutch of eggs.
The harrow and the plough are rusted away.
No more tick of the mantel clock
the scratch of the cats at the kitchen door.
Only the weeds and the hawthorn tree
the winds and shadows last.
Your voices whispering in the grass.

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