Medal of Honour

My grandfather, who was 92 when he died, 9 years ago, was a very brave man. One day, he was walking through the centre of Hull when he saw a gang of lads attacking a guy with learning disabilities. With no hesitation, he waded in, pinned the ringleader to the ground, the other lads ran off, and he got another member of the public to ring the police. He managed to hold the bully down until the police arrived.
For this he received a bravery award from Humberside police. I was SOOOO proud of him! Here’s a poem dedicated to him…

Medal of honour

All we have is a fading photograph
Proud old man
In tan leather shoes
Polished into mirrors
Of army reflections
Standing on principles
Of selfless bravery
Heels as sturdy roots
Sucking up the echoes
Of classless courage
From an Earth
Sodden with the blood
Of cowardice
of cruelty
of discrimination.

All we have is a photograph
Proud old man
In weathered wool coat
Threads laid bare by age
Your seventy-five years
Hold you not to turn a blind eye
To turn the other cheek
Once an army boxer
Punches never left you
But attack in defence
Working class fists
Infused with the legacy
Of world war hardship

Fist to floor
Floor the enemy
Enemy a prisoner
Prisoner of war
War crime
Crime for a cheap dime
Don’t mess with him
Non nonsense banker
Pennies for punches
Pounds for penitence.

All we have is a photograph
Proud old man
In memories now you’re gone
Proud to call you grandad
Proud

©2020 Sarah Drury

Brave

A tribute to my grandfather..

Brave

Old gnarled hands
Lifetime etched between two palms
Hands that served a nation
Praising life, not singing psalms
Two hands that fought a war
That fought in peace when death was calm.

Never forgetting your working class roots
Never afraid of dirty hands
Or the perspiration that came with graft
or the wars you fought in foreign lands.
Never denying you came
From an era when men were the powerful ocean
And women were the shifting sands.

Toil upon soil, your hands spoiled
Hops in Kent, corpses in the fields of France
Never failing, never curtailing
Life a canvas, sometimes bloody, you took your chance.
You never knew what was coming,
But you knew that death comes in advance.

Old gnarled hands
Lifetime etched between two palms
Hands that served a nation
Praising life, not singing psalms.

©2019 Sarah Drury