At Tower Hill

I often visit the Merchant Navy memorial at Tower Hill and have written this free verse poem to commemorate all the merchant seamen who lost their lives in the service of this country.

Listen to: At Tower Hill

If you need to ask who or what we were,
stand here at Tower Hill and read the names,
of merchant seamen with no grave but the sea,
and walk with me—I’ll show you how we died.

So come and take this heavy woollen duffle
that's worn and patched and draggled with damp,
and tie my old frayed scarf about your neck,
pull low your cap, and mind the bitter cold.

Stand beside me at the main deck coamings,
and see our general cargo stowed below;
this is why we’re hunted by the wolf-packs,
and must endure the fear that haunts the prey.

Bales of cotton and wool are stowed in the wings,
crates of bullion, gold for the Bank,
tinned food, vehicles, spares and engine parts,
And tons of munitions fill the hatch squares.

When we're at sea and day is turned to night,
and the dark's complete, listen to your heart
drumming in your ears—it’s the sound of fear,
the fear of the prey fleeing from the hunt.

Three days out from Halifax, eight days to go,
with tension twisting and turning my gut
with every turn of the driving screw,
yet we plough on—and the first ship explodes.

Unseen, the hunters take us one by one,
and three more ships succumb, and by their fires
the burning ships turn night to hellish day,
and…

Flash!—
A red and searing heat!

Now watch our steel rent by blasting fires,
as the ship is torn apart;
the ghastly flames of stricken ships give light
to dying men who drown in burning fuel.

Look at that dead man in the freezing water—
Do you see that tortured corpse is me?
Remember me—Remember us all here,
merchant seamen with no grave but the sea.

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