Three years a slave for Imperial Japan

 A poem about my late fathers experience as a Japanese POW

Captured on fifteenth, February forty two,

The fall of Singapore, the empire cries.

To surrender means, no longer human,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Jim Rea three times corporal, and twice busted,

Building the railway of death for those guys.

Without regard for human life or limb,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Horrific maltreatment, railway of death,

If missing two days, then your hut chief dies.

Disobey the Nippon, can lead to death,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Go beyond the fence, without permission,

Then harsh punishment, or death for those guys.

Malaria, sickness and starvation,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Dysentery, cholera, beriberi,

‘I and most have no boots, just a loin cloth.’

Excrement and maggots, surround latrines,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Many men walk in camp, like walking dead,

Some men attempt to, end their woeful demise.

I can not keep the rice down, four men died,

For every seven sleepers one man dies.

 

‘I fold Nippon uniforms drying on grass’,

Carefully make a, neat pile and arise.

Heart in hand stealthily, carry out of camp,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Trade in village for, what food I can get,

Back to camp with cart, piled high with supplies.

Harsh questions by camp guard, is this my end?

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

‘I have provisions, for two hundred men,’

Guard lets me through, I escape execution.

Share food round the hut, A rare day of plenty,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Ulcer on leg, due for amputation,

Maggots infect wound, no need to incise.

Long open leg wound, is carried to grave,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Rescued second September forty five,

Skin and bones survive, found by our allies.

‘Pies chase me in dreams, I wake up screaming,’

Each four meters of track, one more man dies.

 

Never speak of those, harsh brutal war crimes,

Wounds never heal, memories still reside.

Decimated by disease, or untreated wounds,

One hundred and two, thousand slaves there died.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea 30^th July 2023

Mid-Summers Eve in Town

 

 At the time of Henry VIII

 

As sun goeth down, on feast of Saint John,

Over proud street doors, oak branches appear.

Merry stout benches, are carried to street,

From branch decked doors, come gallons of beer.

 

Giggling young girls, with flowery garlands,

Frolicking men with, their large leafy crown.

Exuberant groups, of jovial folk,

In summery best, parade round the town.

 

As deep darkness falls, long touches are lit,

Rowdy crowds carry, fierce fiery staves high.

Flaming fagots start, to flicker in street,

The boisterous antics, amid the loud cry.

 

Dashing and dancing, to beat of tabor,

Bon fires spark and blaze, their flickering light.

Round pretty foreheads, of maids garlands twine,

As heavenly stars, begin to shine bright.

 

People crowd benches, and bowers in street,

Lucky flowers strewn, on twilight bench.

Green apple peals thrown, on the ground to read,

Some future husband's, letter to sense.

 

Let's all make merry, wassail this short night,

We raise and clash tankards, with cheerful high head.

Till dawn and sleep rob us, of festivity,

Creeping to oak branch, decked Mid-Summer bed.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea Winterfelleth 2022

The Jolly Meadow

 

The Jolly Meadow

Rambling through, the whispering weeds,

Crackling cowslip, scattering seeds.

Bumbling bees, beneath poplar trees,

Grumbling foxglove, sway in the breeze.

 

Ringing hare bells, making their sound,

Silth celandine, carpet the ground.

Pealing poppies, and talking trefoil,

Yabing yarrow, rise from the soil.

 

Bubbling buttercups, shouting shoots,

Dandelions with, their long tap roots.

Singing sorrel and Humming hemlock,

Tripping trefoil, and lady’s smock.

 

Yellow turrets of, tinkling toad flax,

With whistling vetch, in sun relax.

Swishing sweet peas, babbling blue bells,

Phonic primroses casting their spells.

 

Mumbling meadow sweet, waft the air,

Composing campanula, trumpets blare.

Roaring ragwort ,and hushed heartsease,

Grumpy grass pollen, makes you sneeze.

 

Singing nettles, hikery dicory dock,

Slowly wafting, white scented stock.

Rattled red clover, beneath the feet,

Cackling corn cockle, in fields of wheat.

 

Bountiful blue bells, and Monks Hood,

Murmuring mushrooms, hide in the wood.

Curious corn flowers, look amazed,

Cleaver clover, with daises dazed.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea March 2022

Will-o'-the-wisp

 

Over marshy ground, and dark boggy plain,

There dances a light, a flickering flame.

A will-o'-the-wisp, so eerie and bright,

Guiding lost souls through, the darkest of night.

 

With its ghostly glow, colours blue and green,

It travels about, its sly spectral scene.

A tempting allure, for those who may stray,

Leading from the path, to the land of fay.

 

But do beware for, this flickering light,

Is not what it seems, in the dead of night.

It's a trickster's game, a malicious sprite,

A devious dance, that leads one at night.

 

Yet, still it dances, that will-o'-the-wisp,

A haunting sylth sight, that's hard to resist.

A mystery that, captivates the mind,

An enigma of, nature for mankind.

 

So let it dance forth, that flickering flame,

A reminder of, nature's ancient game.

Symbol of mystery, and wonder untold,

The will-o'-the-wisp, a spectre of old.