(Chilwell, July 1st 1918)
When she went there her eyes were clear,
just seventeen, her skin was fair.
She was my love, my Jeanie dear,
she wore blue ribbons in her hair
of blond,
and I could only stare
and wonder at her beauty wild.
The sweet songbird - my only child.
She had a voice that raised good cheer,
when Jeanie sang we were aware
in chapels (and after a beer),
that angel song was not as rare
as what my daughter chose to share.
We were transfixed, bewitched, beguiled.
The sweet songbird - my only child.
She handled bombs for just a year,
harsh chemicals – which took great care -
and always there a nagging fear
that woke her often with a scare
of letting slip the dread nightmare -
a spark that left the shell defiled.
The sweet songbird - my only child.
When she left there I shed a tear,
her hair was green, not for a dare,
but that’s what all the girls have here
in Chilwell where the very air
turns skin a yellow shade – and there
she lay among the bodies piled -
the sweet songbird - my only child.
© Ian Whiteley
