I was sorting through a shoe box, of letters, cards and bits of verse, that Godfrey had left with Beatrice. I asked of her, what became of his friend Sarah? She of hobo-stick and unread letter sealed with tears. He only spoke of Sarah as “One of those who light your path”..she went down to Greenham Peace Camp in the spring of her years.
Sarah wrote to Godfrey of the mud, the bean stew, the books she read by candle light, she wrote of a long walk home on a cold night. “A young British squaddy on the inside of the wire, walked me home round the base on a tar dark winter night. He shone his torch through the fence, lit my way in the wet, deep gullies and mire. We did not speak to each other, when we reached the main gate, he said “good night miss”..under the last arc light . I do not recall being as polite.
At our gate was little tolerance for tears, to think kindly of a young squaddy, destined for war in the spring of his years. I hope that those who light his pathway, see him home to love and peace and safety.
Godfrey writes- When I was a grotty wee lad, and trudged off to school in town. All the kids knew each other..I embarrassed my sister, got a slap from my mother. By the second day I barely spoke above a whisper. In special class, Mrs Kromplak did not laugh at my poetry. “The words you love will light your path” She encouraged me, when not sneaking a sip from her flask, I could ask of teacher things like- “Who created beets? And are butterflies from heaven?. How bright your path will be Mrs Kromplak, for I never had you holler, “Shut up Godfrey.
And when from beet bearing bullies I hid, cornered where boys were not allowed. In matted goat-hair cardigan, and out grown skirt you, Beatrice, stepped out from the sneering crowd to be my friend. Side by each we sat with great, thick wodges of homemade bread and margarine. I lost count of the amount of beets you had to eat on my behalf.
“Those who light your path will wait, pony at your side when we meet again at Shady Gate” We patched together poems. We worked to bind his scraps of stories, for reading quiet mornings..for rainy afternoons and by the campfire, when curled up in times alone
Others so big it’s like they cried out to be sung. Alone? fair Worzel would say Godfrey “Those who light your path will walk beside, down the harbor with you to your worry stone”..