The Haybale Hair

Oh Stanley stay your hand—
Put down that stick—have pity on that dog—
You mustn’t beat him, dear.
I know him by his voice.
Same timbre and the tone
That rollicked with such gusto as he laughed;
I heard it once—I recognise his soul—
Would recognise it anywhere—
Your father’s voice. Your real one, I mean.

Should have heard it as it rang across the tent
That evening in July—the village fête—
Rang bright and clear as the bells for Evensong.
And ruffled through my petticoats
To catch my ear—and brought me to the sight—
Him and his pals all lined up by the bar
Right smart they were—should have seen them all that night—
Those dapper jackets, dazzling in brass—
Swilling cider by the flagonful; the foam
Fell gay and blithe and swaggering with cheers
Rough pewter clinking rowdy on his toast—
“Tomorrow it’s Gallipoli my boys;
Tonight is ours—by God we’ll make it count.”

Then caught my eyes.
Like fishhooks caught in his—
That shimmered bright as dragonflies
Cast blue on blue; light rippling on the deep
Electric blue of eventide
Slow dawdling as it dwindled into dusk.
No wisp of fear to cloud that limpid sky;
Just the Evening Star that twinkled in her charms.

Now Charles, don’t be a silly. Hush
Your nonsense—heel, boy. Right beside our heels—
That’s it boy—heel, and come and meet your son.
My handsome Charlie, glossy in your coat—
Right smart you are, still after all these years—
Smart like your boy.
Done you ever so proud—his posture and his gait—
They’ve trained him well.
He’s shipping to Dunkirk next week—
Won’t you greet him, now he’s come to say hello?
Oh Charlie, he’s the spit of you. Come see—
Same cobalt eyes, like the evening when we met;
And the haybale hair, flecked scarlet as we woke
Entangled in the naked arms of dawn.