As through a child’s eyes

 As through a child’s eyes

 

If cows are sewn from a patchwork hide,

and sheep they knit from wool,

and ducks are stuffed with eiderdown, then what about the moon?

The moon is made from rich cream cheese,

it hangs from a silken thread,

but it rocks the earth and drives the seas deep down into its bed.

 

Where sleeps the silent hermit crab in his stolen cell,

dining on the bones of men who never ever tell,          

what lies beyond this vail of tears where none but one returned, who gave his life for worthless men, the ransom of their souls.

                

How many salty tears he shed to fill such a brackish sea,

though oceans roar with those bitter tears, he shed them all for thee.

 

  

They say the gates of heaven are carved from a single pearl. So pure, so bright they shine with light from his celestial throne.

 

He beckons us to enter in, the gates are open wide, but few are those who pass that way, the rest too full of pride.

 

 

  

Have you read the stories from the octopus’s ink, of the violence of the crayfish twins who terrorise the briny brink.

 

Beware the gangs of loan sharks, who smile with hungry eyes

But all the while are watching you and whispering their lies.

Or the solitary lives of monkfish whose days are spent in prayer.

“Come share my light of comfort” in the depths of deep despair

 

Come ride the spiny seahorse among the wild seagrass, or see the sea cows grazing, as they slowly amble past.

 

 

  

 

Barnacles wink by moonlight as the tide retreats, and dash across the craggy rocks when the seabirds sleep

 

The eyes of a child are open and see such other worlds, but to us they are hidden, like a flag tightly furled.

I long to see through childlike eyes, as once I could clearly see, but time has made us weary like flotsam on the sea.

No use talking to me.

 

2 min 8 sec

Copyright Peter/Christopher Mathews 2011

 The road not taken

Christopher Mathews

Of all the powerful human emotions, love, hate, anger or resentment, regret is one of the most destructive. It lingers in the unexplored corners of the soul for a lifetime like a maggot silently chewing over the ‘other choice,’ the one I did not take. The heart always wonders,

“what if…”

The imagination longingly looks across to the road not taken from the road we did.

Leaving school is a bit like diving from a high board into a vast unknown ocean, who knows where the tide will take us.

It all started when I saw the hand scrawled note on my school bulletin board. It was buried among the glossy career opportunity literature.

“Have you thought about a career in… banking, insurance or finance?”

“Get a trade, Britain needs carpenters, plumbers, bricklayer and butcher’s.” But this note read,

“16-year-old deck hands wanted to serve aboard the three masted schooner, the, TS Tradewind.

 “Two years before the mast. Must be fit and agile, not prone to sea sickness or afraid of heights. Learn to navigate by the stars, see the world, become a man,

signed, Captain CT Kestrel RN (retired).

Apply in person by eight bells, 1^st June 1962 at the TS Tradewind. Royal Naval Docks – Portsmouth.”

The three of us stared at the small note. Micky Binns stood to attention and saluted stiffly in mock respect, then laughed - fit to burst.”

“What a stuck-up prat,” he said, and carried on laughing.  “Captain Pugwash RN retired.” Again, he saluted. “Eight bells – what’s eight bells anyway?”

But we didn’t laugh. Jim and I stared hard at the note, and he said,

“Do you know what eight bells means?”

But I was not listening, in my imagination, I was already at sea, climbing the mizzen mast to set canvas or battling a fierce southerly gale. Or sitting in the Crowsnest at midnight, under a cloudless inky black sky, a gentle wind creaking in the rigging as we glide along a smooth bottomless sea, a perfect mirror of the heavens above.

“Do you think it’s real? The note I mean,” said Jim. I was suddenly jerked out of my imagination and back to school. Jim was my best friend at school; we did everything together, always have.

“We could both go to sea.” He said, excitement lit up his face. But then it fell like a deflating balloon and said, “no, I can’t, my dad wants…”

“Real!” bellowed Micky, “don’t be stupid, ‘course it’s not real, it’s a prank! – it’ll be someone in the upper sixth – Snotty Bulstrode, like as not - Looks like his scrawl.”

But Jim was enthralled by the idea of going to sea. His father was a solicitor and wanted him to follow in the family profession or even become a barrister. Not an Italian bloke who makes posh coffee either.

“He said I have to get all A’s, go to a top university and then...”

“What about Portsmouth, that’s a very old university? And, we could meet with Captain CT Kestrel RN retired and see the ship for ourselves at the same time.”

“Not good enough for my father. Anyway, it’s not a real university, just a technical college.”

“Come on Jim, we could get the late train down, sleep in a carriage when the guards aren’t looking, see the ship and be back on the milk train.”

“I don’t know, my Father…”

“…Won’t ever know. Anyway, It’s not up to him, it’s up to you! It’s your life, not his. You must choose your own road. Not him!” He thought for a moment, then smiling, he said, “There are no roads at sea you fool,” and we both laughed.

Rummaging in my father’s attic many years later, I found a box of my old school diaries. I turned to the date; 1^st June 1962. I had written a note that night, so very long ago now;

Our first sight of the ship was breath-taking! It was tied up on the dockside amidst Royal Navy battleships, vast, grey steel ships, frigates, destroyers and even a submarine. These modern vessels dwarfed the three masted schooner, but it outshone all of them in pure grace and splendid majesty!

The tang of the sea was mixed with the smell of hot iron and grease from the ships and gantries lining the dockside. But among all that was another aroma; tarred rigging, fresh deck varnish and the rich exotic smell of ships planking made from old Teak.

Even from the quayside we could hear the booming, gravely voice of Captain Kestrel, it couldn’t be anyone else. He barked out clear unambiguous orders in a voice used to compete with the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the sea. His face was bronzed and weatherbeaten. A white beard and straggly hair under a sun-bleached captain’s hat was set awry on his head.  He had the most piercing blue eyes I had ever seen. When he noticed us, he mopped the sweat from his brow, grabbed a small notebook, strode across the deck and swung from the rattling shrouds and with a light bound was standing on the gunwales looking down upon us. He was at least sixty, but he had one of those ageless lively faces, both old and boyish at the same time.

‘Well now, what has the tide washed up today.’ He said in a brisk commanding but not unkind voice. A small knot of us, five nervous boys stood close together on the quayside staring up at the old man. He looked like a giant holding on to the rigging with one hand, swinging back and forth slightly as if still at sea. He beamed down at us.

‘Come aboard lads, and we will explore all the oceans of the world together. If you join my crew, you will see wonders that no one else has ever seen. I could tell you of the great Leviathan, the kraken, of beautiful mermaids and deadly sirens, of ghost ships and lost islands where pirate treasure lay hidden waiting to be discovered.’ He laughed a hearty laugh, and said, ‘what about it lads, which of you will come to sea. Bosun, bring me the ships log, if you please.’

The deep wrinkles in his face showed that he was well used to smiling and the sun had blessed him with well-worn contours like the waves and troughs of the sea. He was not at all as I expected.

There was much more written, but I closed the book gathered up all the other diaries and climbed down the loft ladder. Tucked inside many of the diaries were dozens of old dusty letters from my school friend Jim. The envelopes bore the stamps from all over the world.

In a quiet moment, I would sit alone in my Lincoln’s Inn Chambers between complex legal cases, read these letters and weep; for the road not taken.

Copyright Christopher Mathews. June 2026

 

The best laid plans

 The best laid plans

By Christopher Mathews

 

The best laid plans of mice and men often fail and fail again.

They come to naught or grief or pain - but the world goes round and round the same

 

Such is all their worth

 

The fieldmouse builds her home in vain, just before the ploughman came

to strip the soil, her straw built shed and leave her tiny offspring dead.

 

Beneath the naked earth

 

‘House for sale, with mountain scenes, on the shores of Tyrrhenian Seas.

Herculaneum, a seaside town’ - built on hubris - that deadly ground.

 

A city built on mirth

 

Fool! the man who builds on sand and takes not heed for how he plans

Come soon or late, our end will come and what is left of all we’ve done?

 

Unless you have new birth

 

-o0o-

The above was inspired by the Robert Burns poem, To a Mouse.)

 

Copyright Christopher Mathews, June 2026

SandCastleS

 SandCastleS

By Chris Mathews    

        The first time I saw the sea I thought I was standing on the very edge of the world. I asked my dad, “does it go on forever, or just tumble over the rim in a great waterfall far away?”

“No, but somewhere over there is another land, thousands of miles away. They speak a strange language and it’s so hot some of them don’t were clothes.”

“But why is the sky so big, it’s much bigger here than in London.” My dad turned away with a chuckle and set up the deck chairs. I had only just turned six and this was my first holiday, the first time out of London. I loved the train ride down to the seaside, the whole world flashed by like a film seen through the windows of our carriage. It’s a shame they don’t have steam trains anymore.

Thundering, great waves crashed onto the beach. Warm soft sand squelched between my toes, like stepping into warm boots on a cold snowy day. There I stood, looking out over a vast expanse of gold, wriggling my toes, enjoying the sensation.

My older brother ran ahead, leaping for joy and shouting excitedly. With a cricket stump, he wrote his name in the sand in giant letters. He looked up at an aeroplane miles above us and shouted, “It’s me - Stephen - I’m on holiday - in Littlehampton!” But the plane just ignored him, and flew on. He ran into the breaking surf without bothering to change into his trunks. Turning back to me he shouted,

“Come and splash in the waves it’s wonderful!” Mum shouted something about changing into swimming trunks… but the rest was lost in the wind, anyway, he was having too much fun to listen. I stood there amazed at the sight.  Stephen was almost nine, he had seen the sea before, but to me it was astonishing. Andrew was only four and still just a baby!

Back home, we sometimes sailed pond yachts on the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, but, compared to this, that seems like a puddle. Staring at the vast blue ocean, I asked of no one in particular,

“Where did all that water come from.” Dad laughed and said,

“That’s where all the rain goes, silly.”

Finally, Stephen’s infectious joy overtook my amazement, and I too ran out into the sea, but only up to my ankles. It was freezing! I drew back quickly as a cold wave rushed at me splashing my knees. I fell over. Funny how you can’t keep your balance when the water is moving beneath you.

Dad set up the wind brakes, umbrellas, towels and a tablecloth. Mum laid out a thermos, sandwiches and little cakes. Dad tied the corners of his handkerchief to make a sort of sun hat, we all laughed at him, but he didn’t care. He just sat back in his deckchair smiling at the sun, and eating a sandwich. Mum handed me a bucket and spade, but my older brother was already building a sandcastle. I dropped to my hands and knees, which plunged deep into the warm soft sand. It was like the golden-brown sugar my mum used for baking. I was allowed to help in the kitchen sometimes. Andrew tried a mouthful of sand, pulled an ugly face and spat it out.  Stephen built a big mound like a hill.

“All castles have to be built on a hill, because the invading army gets tired out climbing it, and then they can’t fight!” He made a flat top by pounding the mound with his spade.

I too began to build. Soon, six round towers and a wall around enclosed the space inside. Stephen said, “we need a portcullis, and a drawbridge to keep invaders out!”

My dad called out, “you’ve got to have a mote; every castle needs one to defend itself against invasion.” So, we dug a trench all the way around, which slowly began to fill with water.

“Perfect, it looks like a real castle now!”

After eating sandy sandwiches and drinking too much Tizer and Ginger Beer, Dad made some flags out of lolly sticks and sweet wrappers.

Two boys from further up the beach came to join in, one said, “we can be the Saracens - I’m Suliman the Magnificent and this is a Templar fortress. You three can be medieval knights. We are going to build Trebuchet’s to break down your castle.”

“What’s a trebuchet?” I asked.

“Big wooden siege engines” Said one with a mouthful of cake mum gave him. “The Saracens used them to throw big rocks to smash the castles walls.” These boys were much older than me.

My dad solemnly said, “kneel, Sir Stephen.” And placed the red and white bucket on Stephen’s head, he knighted him there on the sand with his spade. “Take this mighty sword and with your fellow knights defend my kingdom.” Andrew sat inside and was given the title, “Keeper of the Kings Castle.”

Soon, some of the towers began to collapse, my brother shouted,

“Quick, repair the south turret, reinforced the drawbridge, rebuild the walls!” We all pattered down the wet sand to compact it. But the incoming tide did more damage than the tiny stones those boys flicked from their lolly stick trebuchets. The tide was coming nearer.

Dad said, “you need to build a dam against the waves.” We all worked franticly to save the castle. But the sea lapped into out feeble mote, and undermined the towers, which slumped back into the sand. Mum shouted above the sound of the surf, “quick dad, get your camera and take a picture.” But eventually the inevitable happened, as waves washed away our childhood.

Finally, dad said looking at the remains, “sorry boys, you can’t stop the tide. Just ask King Canute, he should know. Remember your Sunday School lessons, the wise man builds his house upon the rock, but the fool builds his house upon the sand.”

Running down to the beach the next day I saw that, nothing beside remains round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare but the lone and level sands stretch far away. Only a few lolly stick flags were left sticking up out of the sand.

Looking at this grainy black-and-white photograph now, three proud little boys stare grinning back at me, I try hard to remember who they were. On the back was written Littlehampton 1962. I wonder where those boys are now.

 

© Christopher Mathews, May 2026

The woodpecker and the carpenter

 The woodpecker and the carpenter

By Chris Mathews

Long ago the carpenter said to the woodpecker,

“I need holes, lots of holes - drilled in these great planks of wood.”

“I love to make holes, how many holes?” the woodpecker asked eagerly.

“Many thousands,” he replied, “enough to build a giant house.

“You must be building a very big house sir. Do you have a very large family.”

“No, just me and seven others, but I will have lots of guests who will be joining me. Some will be very large and some very small, as small as a dormouse. And each one needs just the right room, for, ‘In my father's house there are many rooms,’”

“Your job is to make all the holes for the wooden pegs that will hold my house together. You must make the holes good, and round, and strong so my house can weather the fiercest storm, because my house must float on the oceans of the world.”

“What oceans, I have flown over this whole earth but have never seen an ocean!” Said the little woodpecker. Mrs Woodpecker came and perched along side her husband and said,

“Don’t you know all the people of the town are laughing at you! People come from miles around, point and Look, ‘Come and see the HMS Carpenter’s Folly!’”

“I was told to build the house, and God himself would provide the ocean, so Mrs woodpecker have a little faith! There is room enough for all, including you.”

“How long will we be gone?”

“Until the world is made clean.”

“Why would you choose me,” said the woodpecker. “I'm only a very small bird there are plenty of bigger, stronger, faster and smarter animals.”

“Yes, they have their part to play too, but only you can make such beautiful holes even in the hardest wood. Don't you know that God has appointed each one to the things they are best at. The elephants can uproot trees and drag logs. The giraffe can reach to the top deck. The Oxen, with his great strength can drive the sawmill. The bevers will cut down the trees with their strong teeth. Even the moles can mine the earth to find copper to make the nails. But only you could make such beautiful holes. Each one must do the thing he is good at. So gather your friends, you will need plenty of help.”

Copyright Chris Mathews

 

 Mrs Bobbin, afternoon tea, and sawn off shot guns.

By Christopher Mathews

“I don't get why you don't understand the plan Spike, it really ain’t that difficult, son.

“Just go over it again, please Charlie, for my sake, please!” Charlie frowned at him, and said in a slow frustrated voice,

“I ring the doorbell – to distract the old bag with some blag - you break in at the back, nice n quiet like, and find ‘er stash - got it?”

“Can't I ring the doorbell, Charlie, please. Why do I have to do the break in every time. To tell the troof, I've put on a few pounds since Christmas, and I don't like climbing up drainpipes ‘n in fru windows no more, it’s my back Charlie see.

“Yeah, but you aint got the brains Spike old son, you gota sweet talk the old girl, soft like, see, lull her to sleep, stuff like that needs brains Spike, and you don’t hav em.”

“You're always sayin that, just 'cause you got O level woodwork, and I aint. Anyway, wouldn't she keep her dosh stashed in the bank like normal people.”

“The bank!” Charlie gave a hollow laugh. “I told you before Spike, old ladies like that keep wads of cash under the bed, or stuffed in the mattress, they don’t trust banks! You just have to remember not to spill the chamber pot all over you when you go fumbling under her bed. NDA on your clothes, and you’d be down the nick, soon as. Besides, her old man didn’t like banks - famous for it - he was!”

“You are clever Charlie, you’ve fought of everythin.”

“Brains, that’s what a job like this takes. Anyway Spike, there’ll be loads of jewels, n silver, gold, n stuff somewhere up there. Then, off down the pub with a bag full of shiny. Micky the Fence melts it down, and bosh, we are rolling in clover. And the best part, it’s all untraceable, no prints, no family heirlooms for the Plod to track down. Nufin to flog down Doggy Frank’s Pawn Shop, nufin, nufin comes back to us see. The Old Bill can’t pin nufin on us.”

“I fought she was just a sweet little old lady livin in that big old house on Cable-stich Street.”

“Just goes to show what you know then don’t it! She's the widow of a textile tycoon, worth millions, and she aint got no kids to squander all that lovely dosh on niver. It’s all there just for the pickin. I bet she’s half dotty too. So, by the time the Old Bill arrive, she won’t tell ‘em nufin.”

“Can’t’ we do over a post office instead. I don’t like the idea of gaggin and tying up the old dear, what if I have to… well you know…”

“What?”

“You know, I have to hurt her?”

“Then make it look like an accident - you know, fell down the basement steps tripping over the cat, all old bag’s got cats. That reminds me – balaclavas, gloves, and come tooled-up too, got it!”

“Do we have to Charlie, what do we want wiv shooters? It’s just one old dear. And another fing, why do we have to do it in the afternoon, can’t we do it at night, like decent burglars.”

“Never go to a job without adequate insurance Spike, you know that! Anyway, no one will suspect nufin. Before she knows it, you will be off with the swag, while I’m still drinking tea wiv the old bag, then we meet back at your gaff to count the takings.”

“But won’t she give your description to the Old Bill.”

“I got a false beard and make-up nicked from the market.”

“I will say it again Charlie, you are clever, I give you that!”

The two parked up a block away and Spike sneaked off down a back alleyway.

The ancient doorbell rang somewhere deep inside the gloomy hallway. The sound of shuffling feet and the slow tap, tap, tap of a walking stick echoing on the black and white tiles could be heard from deep inside the house.

“Coming dear,” called an old woman, followed by some indistinct mumbling. Finally, a croaky old lady’s voice came through the letterbox.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Inspecta, err, Smith - the gas safety, err hoficer from, err from British Rail, I mean Gas. Is that Mrs Bobbin of number one Cable-stich Street.”

“What do you want dear, could you speak up a little dear, I frightfully def.” Charlie raised his voice a little saying,

“We had reports of gas leaks coming from your err, water pipes, err plumin, err under your floorboards.” He flashed an identity card past the letterbox. It looked a lot like a Guinness label. “I’ve come to inspect your gaff, err property madam.”

“Oh dear that does sound dreadful, you had better come in. Just a moment please dear.” The sound of keys scraping in rusty locks, chains being unfastened and bolts being drawn back, then, several minutes later the door opened a fraction. Somewhere inside the dingy house, a gramophone was playing Boccherini’s minuet in E major. A warm musty smell like old cabbage wafted out through the gap in the door which took Charlie back a little.

The visitor looked down to see a pair of watery grey eyes looking up at him. They belonged to a little old lady of about ninety, back bent double, with a lace shawl across her shoulders, fluffy slippers, lace gloves and an enormous sapphire necklace, which winked invitingly at Charlie.

She drew the door wide open and said,

“Do mind the step dear. I was just going to make a pot of tea.” She showed him into a large richly furnished drawing room. Charlie’s eyes hungrily scanned the room taking an inventory of the valuables on offer. Mrs Bobbin shuffled off saying,

“Won’t be a moment dear, the kettle has almost boiled. Do you like hobnobs dear.” Her voice tailed off and Spike could just hear her mumbling, “I might have some homemade fruit cake left if you…”  Charlie sat down clumsily, his sawn-off shotgun sticking out awkwardly from under his heavy overcoat. A handgun in his back pocket making him jump up again. He stifled a squeal, but out in the kitchen the old girl heard nothing as she made the tea.

His quick scan of the room revealed a nice haul of valuables, antique furniture, paintings and the like, but too difficult to shift quickly. He would pass the intel onto an associate who specialises in that stuff. Intel like that is worth a mint down his boozer, even if it is to just keep the ‘big fish’ like The Pike Brothers off his case. Never mess with the Pikes!

Mrs Bobbin came shuffling back into the room carrying a tarnished silver tray, solid silver cutlery and chipped crockery. The stale fruit cake looked unappetising. Spike, seeing the silverware, mentally adjusted his estimation of the haul upwards a little.

“The tea tastes funny love.” He said.

“Oh yes, it is camomile tea dear, very soothing, have another piece of my fruit cake dear.” After ten minutes of small talk, his head was starting to spin. The room was stiflingly hot. He took a bite of stale cake, but that too was odd.

The sound of banging could be heard from upstairs.

“I wonder what that was dear,” she said, beginning to rise.

“It’s probably your pipes banging, err from the err, the gas leak, err they do that.” He put a heavy hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

“Don’t trouble yourself luv, I will go and inspect. Gas can be dangerous to the untrained,” he added. His head was aching, and he staggered out of the room and up the stairs calling softly,

Spike, Spike! Keep it down Spike!

From the drawing room, a stifled argument could be heard upstairs somewhere. The old lady suddenly appeared at the door of the bedroom with astonishing speed. The two men froze, mid-sentence in a comical tussle, Spike’s fists were full of jewels. Both were amazed at how such an old lady could have managed the stairs so quickly. She stared at both men with an expression which could be accusation or simply confusion. “Finally,” she said, with a slight smile,

“Perhaps your colleague would like some tea too.”

“I aint found no gas leak yet neiver love! Honest love.” Spike blurted out, his face riddled with guilt at being discovered red handed.

“Play along Spike, I don’t think she noticed,” Charlie whispered. She led both men downstairs again.

“Stupid old bag!” Spike said under his breath. Mrs Bobbin insisted that he have some camomile tea and cake too.

“Play along Spike,” Charley muttered again under his breath. “But shut up and let me do the talking! And say you want the loo, that will give you a chance to finish the job.” The stale air, her monotonous hypnotic voice with its endless string of petty irrelevance and the hot fire seemed to overtake them.

Within ten minutes both men were slumped fast asleep in armchairs. Mrs Bobbin picked up the old telephone and said,

“They are both fast asleep Mable.” An indistinct old lady’s voice came from the receiver and Mrs Bobbins replied,

“Several hours I should think dear, I gave them a very strong dose.” This was followed by more indistinct questions.

“Yes, two sawn-off shot guns, and two revolvers and plenty of ammo. And yes, their dabs are all over the shooters, and I did wear gloves.” A muffled cheer could be heard from the telephone and Mable said something else.

“How else could six old ladies get hold of guns like that, it was a great plan and it worked! Contact Maureen, Elsie, Joan and the other members of the Lavender Ladies Mob, we are on tonight.

The end

Copyright Christopher Mathews – Jan 2026

 

 

Autumn Harvest

 Autumn Harvest 

By Christopher Mathews 

Children wade knee deep through waves of golden carpet leaf,

 the crunch and snap of autumn’s dry discarded wreath.

 

Pockets full of conkers they search the forest floor,

ready for the schoolyard battle, with the boy who lives next door.

 

The stream is slow and lazy now,

at peace with the waving waterweed,

shrew and voles seek a place for the long cold winter sleep

 

Morning mist veils the land with a gentle silver glow, the cobwebs shine like jewels, the promise of an early snow.

 

The evening sun, falls swiftly upon the weary weald,

soon at rest, the summer harvest gone, labourers plod home to leave the empty field

 

A breathless breeze calls softly among the withering leaves,

the golden spell of summer’s gone,

announcing winter’s sleep.

 

Old and ragged butterflies search among the blackthorn leaves,

a place to lay their seed of life for the coming spring.

 

The king of trees has lost his robes of lush and verdant green,

and reigns alone without the Elm,

his long dead slender queen.

 

His labour through the spring and summer toil,

produced the treasured acorn, abundant with the richness of the soil.

 

An fruitful crop of life, hides inside the golden leaves, but lost among its branches the gall wasp lays her parasitic seeds

Autumn brings to mind my darker days,

as daylight flees and youthful strength begins to slowly fade

 

Copyright Christopher Mathews

The end of war.

 The end of war.

By Christopher Mathews

(A love letter from Flanders)

My dearest, darling Florence,

It’s been so long I can hardly remember the shape of your face or the outline of your nose. The warmth of your skin in the sun on that day last summer, or the smell of oranges after you had been working in your father’s fruit stall all day. How your eyes twinkle when you smile at me.

The captain says, I’m not allowed to tell you where I am, somewhere in France in a trench, it’s a sort of ugly scar in the earth we all hide in. Do you know I haven’t seen or heard a bird singing since we got here. That’s because all the trees have been shredded to stumps, I suppose.

The morning mist mixed with the smoke from the guns hangs thick on the ground. We all live in terror of the Gas Rattles sounding, and Captain shouting Gas, gas, gas. Followed by “Mask up, lads”, as we all scramble before the green miasma comes.

Oh, for just a glimpse of your smile, to see you again. Sometimes I can’t remember what you look like. Do you remember that moment when your barley coloured hair flowed like ribbons in the summer breeze as I pushed you on a swing in the playground. Or the time when I gave you a ride home on the crossbar of my bike, your father was standing at the door looking cross. And you, trying to hide the oil stains on your dress from my bike chain. And he, with pocket watch in hand, tutting at the lateness of the hour. You were too afraid to kiss me goodnight in front of him, do you remember?

Where do all the rats come from. They seem to be everywhere and so big too. I swear, some are as big as the pigs on Mr Gregory’s farm. What do they live on? There’s hardly enough rations for me and the lads.

After it’s been raining, we’re wading through mud. How come the rats can get so big when there’s nothing to eat but mud?

My mate Frank says, they have found another food supply, out there, in the dark, among the bomb craters and barbed wire. But there’s nothing out there, so how did the rats get so big? Frank says they found a plentiful supply of meat. I don’t like to think of that.

Do you remember that day when we went tobogganing down Shooters Hill, we laughed. We couldn’t feel our fingers or toes, and your friend Betty cried all the way home on the bus. My dad made that sledge from an old bed frame and scraps of wood. I expect it’s gone now.

Lieutenant Graham says we should sleep sitting upright, with our hands tucked inside our trench coat pockets, otherwise the rats nibble your fingers or ears.

Rob and his brother Wil, didn’t come back after the last push. I wonder if they’re lying there, asleep out in the mud and cold. He still has my tobacco tin. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.

Oh Flo, I long for the day when we will be wed, and this nightmare will come to an end. We felt so brave me, Charly, Frank, Rob and his little brother Wil, when we set off. He wasn’t even old enough to join up. Do you remember all the girls came to wave us off on the train. But I only saw you my dearest Flo.

Over here, It’s nothing like the posters or the rousing songs back in the pub. Can’t say too much ‘cos they will only blot it out. Something to do with morale back home.

Will you come rowing on the Serpentine with me again, we can bring a bottle of ginger beer and a basket full of sandwiches. Your mum makes nice sandwiches, and my mum’s fruit cake too?

We just have spam here, it’s not too bad, you get to like it after a bit.

Do you remember auntie Charlotte giggling like a girl when she saw us kissing in your mum’s pantry last Christmas. You went so red in the face.

The captain says, it will soon be over boys, so hold fast. One last push men! But that was Christmas 1915, it’s now February. 

We could hear the Germans singing carols, not one hundred yards away that Christmas. We joined in too. Who would have thought it, maybe they're not so different from us after all.

I still remember your sweet voice, the first time I heard you sing in church; like an angel, it was.

The first day it snowed it was so white, it seemed to wash away the war with all his ugly scars. It’s like God wanted to blot out the shame of it all. But it’s all grubby now, trampled under jack boots.

The chaplain says that God is on our side. I don't think he takes sides, do you?

Captain Graham does his best to reassure us all. He often walks along the trench just to cheer us up, you know, to check morale and bolster our spirits. He gave me a Cigarette once, when I’d run out. Yesterday he laid his hand on my shoulder,

“Take courage lads,” he said, but I could feel him trembling. He’s not much older than us.

I can still remember the first time you touched my arm, that made me tremble too, goosebumps all over, like electricity. Funny thing how both love and fear can make a man tremble.

I should really love a July wedding, shouldn’t you? We’ll have ginger beer and your mum‘s best cakes. I still keep the lucky rabbits foot you gave me when we parted, it’s the most precious thing I have, apart from your letters and my Bible.

Frank says, I’m stupid for trusting in such nonsense. He was shot the other day in the arm, they patched him up as best they could, but everything rots down here, I fear he may lose it to gangrene. He says it’s his lucky ticket home. I wish I had a ticket home.

I think I will ask my brother Donald to be best man, what do you think? You could ask your sister to be bridesmaid. I’m sending you ten-bob so you could start saving for our honeymoon. Southend, on the seafront, riding the dodgems or the helter-skelter, holding a big mop of candyfloss, glorious! And dancing too, at the Kursaal! I’m not very good at dancing. I know, you could teach me. Or if we can afford it, the Isle of Wight. No, don’t be silly Jack, we’re not millionaires are we.

The Big Bertha’s have started pounding again, so I’ll have to sign off.

Did your big sister have her baby yet? I hope it grows up with a dad. Every kid should have a dad.

Do write soon. I store up your letters and keep them in my Bible close to my heart.

I can’t sleep when the bombs are going off ‘cos the ground shakes. I wonder if my mates can see the fear in my eyes, I can see it in theirs. I think Norman has gone mad ‘shell shock’ they calls it. He wet himself on the first night of bombing, we found him huddled in a corner crying for his mother. Lack of morale fibre. They calls it, but I say, scared witless, like the rest of us.

“Our father who art in heaven… deliver us from this evil.” I never thought about that prayer much before now, but we all pray, every night, even Micki, who always said he didn’t believe in God. There are no atheists in the trenches.

Remember me in your prayers Flo, as I remember you. The captain has called orders down the line, so it’s tin hats on and rifles at the ready. When the whistle blows we’ll be up the ladder and over the top.

Think of me sometimes, if I don’t come back.

All my love, Jack

 

                                                                                               Copyright Christopher Mathews - November 2025