I was waiting for a bus in Somerled Square, Portree. And then, I witnessed a small gesture, that sent shivers down my spine. I was not sure about whether to put this poem up, but I feel I have to. Watching a young woman stand in front of the war memorial in Portree today sparked off a poem that just had to be out there.
The War Memorial
On Somerled Square in Portree
between bus stop and cafe,
police station and car park
sits the town’s war memorial.
Wherever I go,
in this country
or further afield,
there is always one,
with far too many names of local men,
remembered for not coming home
when they should be remembered
in much better ways,
as loving fathers, sons and husbands,
beautiful, important people,
hearts and souls,
not allowed to live full lives.
Their children’s children,
and the ones they never had
should sit on benches
under trees,
all over the world,
in squares without the need for plaques
or names of the fallen chiselled in stone.
They should be licking ice creams,
watching happy days go by,
chatting, laughing, remembering
the parents and grandparents they had.
And when a visitor from another world
stands in the centre of town wondering
‘Where is the war memorial?’
a little child should tug gently
at her mummy’s sleeve
and ask with big curious eyes
‘What’s a war?’
Instead, there’s a young woman
standing in Somerled Square today,
tracing a couple of names with her finger
before touching her heart,
taking a bow
and going home.
Britta Benson
Odds & Ends - Poetry Blog 