Sweet is the calm Poetry.uk

This poem I have written is in memory of my wife’s great uncle, Joseph Harold Dyer, born Stretton-on-Fosse, Warwickshire, 1895. Son of Joseph and Emily Dyer (nee Cook), of Stretton-on-Fosse, Warwickshire. Joseph senior was a hurdle maker. Joseph Harold was called up to join the Army in 1916 and was sent to fight in France. Both Joseph and his best friend, a Mr D Humphries had made a pact between them, that whomever was killed, the other would send a letter to their respective parents informing them of their loss and before they could receive official government notification. Ironically the day after Joseph’s family received D Humphreys letter, my wife’s Grandfather Alfred George received his call up papers for the Army. This resulted in Joseph senior suffering a heart attack from which he recovered. It would appear that the anguish of losing one son then the government asking him to send another was too much to bear. The other tragedy that unfolded from this story is that Joseph Harold was engaged to a young lady (possibly named Emma) who later died during the Spanish flu outbreak circa 1919.

Private Joseph Harold Dyer, 16368, 2nd Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment was killed in action, July 14th 1916 at the Battle of Bazentin, Somme, France. Remembered with honour on the Stretton on Fosse war memorial, St Peter’s Church and the Thiepval memorial, Somme, France.

The veins of those anew,

Have the blood that courses through,

With a tragic loss of one,

The hurdle maker’s son,

Upon the Gallic field,

For a uniform to shield,

Failed to protect him still,

Bullet or shell to kill,

As to Evesham did go,

Orders now to flow,

Over La Manche to the Somme,

Loved by all who saw him from,

The shire where he bloomed,

Of the youth who were doomed,

His friends cut terrible by his loss,

With a letter sent across,

From his best pal with whom he served,

A pact between them preserved,

To send that note but not to lie,

About how he was to die,

Who thought he was still coming on,

His friend the hurdle maker’s son,

He died painless it’s said,

I doubt it his blood spilt red,

No grave for those that care,

On Lutyens memorial to share,

Grief the same for every man,

Lament the dead at Bazentin,

God is going to call us when and how,

Not caring if I go under now,

Bare your deep sorrow,

Bravely for their tomorrow,

Another son they can send there,

For the white dot on the black square,

His beloved waits for news,

But it’s not what she would choose,

The loss too much to take,

Purple death to create heartache,

Now they’re united in God’s grace,

This tragedy both families to face,

Two medals and a dead man’s penny,

Sent by post indeed too many,

Gone now their beloved one,

To grieve for the hurdle maker’s son.       

James Findon © 2025. 

Recently took early retirement as to be honest after nearly fifty years I’d had enough. I started work early September 1976 and in our local youth club someone asked me if it was my first day at work, “yes” I replied. “Only 49 years to go then” he said. We both laughed out loud.

With my working knowledge,

My achievements won,

Time to take it easy,

Easier said than done.

Hang up all my gear,

Now nothing earned,

And with all the things,

I thought I’d learned,

When I have to go,

Knowledge to the ground,

Bit of a shame,

With More to have found,

End of the regulations,

No more courses trained,

A time to forget,

All that skill gained,

Enjoy your retirement,

It’s the only one you’ll score,

Finances to arrange,

Wolves kept from the door, 

To the desk I was wedded,

No more logging on,

Opposite four screens,

In my trainers undone,

Now I’m at home,

Alone with the wife,

No more office banter,

But a quieter life,

Time to put my feet up,

Not on your nelly,

I’ve exercise to do,

Burn the fat off my belly,

Books to read,

Poetry too,

Forget the newspapers,

Of a media zoo,

More birthdays behind me,

That I should care,

But how many more summers,

Will I be there.

James Findon © 2025.

Are we all followers, being influenced by others. I certainly was when a younger man but the wise old owl doesn’t care what others think of me anymore. I keep my own counsel and do the things that make me happy, like writing poetry.

…………

On and on we go,

On their heals, I know,

Blindfold we follow,

On and on we go,

Herd mentality to show,

Long standing myth to crow,

Of mass suicide, NO!

On and on we go,

Like lost sheep in the snow,

The ice melts in the glow,

Leads a jolly dance, slow,

On and on we go,

And with all their tales of woe,

The Bovine splatter to flow,

No golden end to the rainbow,

On and on we go….

James Findon © June 2026.

Recently I had a vacation to the village of Hawkshead in the English lake district. This short poem I have written is about a local stream called Blackbeck and the walks we undertook along its banks and local countryside.

On a misty early morn,

Within the shaded vale,

Where a cobweb-soaked display,

Hanging, balanced, frail,

Bridge the straight stream,

Step the track as we go,

By a barbed wire fence,

Celandine’s and wild garlic grow,

The cuckoo sounds his first call,

Across the flood plain Curlews glide,

Newborns bounce between the shadows,

A mating season for the husband and bride, 

Cast as the sun breaks through,

Sheep silhouetted against the sky, 

Wagtails in the Beck,

A church bell tolls on high,

Warmth of the glowing light,

A solitary barn on a hill,

Machinery standing guard,

Silent, empty, still,

The pathway now well-trodden,

With all there is to see,

Walk next to mother nature,

Breathe, exhale, free.

James Findon © 2026.

Hi I’m James Findon and welcome to my poetry blog. I want to share with you the joy of poetry and maybe inspire you to write as well. It all started with a book I read about a guy named Edward Thomas who was a literary critic who then went on to write poetry. Tragically he was killed in World War 1 and his biography by the author Matthew Hollis is quite moving and somewhere within the grey matter decided I would like to write poetry myself. And the title for my blog was divine inspiration from a hymn “For all the saints” verse 9 ,“Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed” written by William Walsham How in 1864. I write poetry about all different types of subjects some of which are personal some not. I also review some poetry and biography’s and have a good spread of poetry books with a lot of reading and writing to do. Poets that have inspired me recently, apart from Edward Thomas, are Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke and Seigfried Sassoon. All war poets from WW1. Other poets would include Sir John Betjeman, A E Housman, W B Yeats and from more recent times Pam Ayres, who I had the pleasure of seeing on stage at Shrewsbury recently on her “Doggedly Onward” tour of which my wife has bought me a signed copy of her book. Bonus!

Disclaimer: Please note that all poetical works on this site are copyright © of the author (James Findon) as well as any pictures, illustrations etc. unless otherwise stated and any copy/reprinting must have the approval of the author beforehand. (All Rights Reserved). My poetry is written as a way of telling historical facts, observations and personal experiences and are in no way intended to be politically incorrect, racially motivated or offensive to any of my readers. Please feel free to contact me if you have any comment or feedback on my work.

“I might be strange and like a joke, but there’s nowt so queer as normal folk”.

Please check out my other poems and articles. These can be found on the blog sub-pages:

• Book review’s.
• History Poems.
• Military Poems.
• Natural World Poems.
• Religious & Spiritual Poems.
• My Other Poems.

“The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors cometh rest;
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!”

(William Walsham How 1864)