First Light

First Light

The Chichester Festival Theatre programme of productions for the summer festival 2016 plopped onto my front door mat yesterday morning.  Within its pages, one finds a set of two page spreads about the plays and musicals that will form the summer festival and the stars appearing in each of them.

If you become a ‘Friend’ of the theatre, at a bit less than the cost of one ticket, there are some benefits. The reason I do this myself, is not, in all honesty, to be friendly in any way to this, my, really, truly, madly favourite (twin) theatre(s). No. It is because it is almost impossible to get my favourite seats in my favourite theatre, unless you have forked out the £35 smackers to be a ‘Friend’.

The icing on the ‘Friends’ cake, is not the discount, but it is very much, absolutely even, the brief priority booking period, lasting but a few days, that is the main benefit in my eyes. Even then you have to be quick off the mark. Flipping through the booklet before I even sat down comfortably, I realised that this was going to be expensive summer for me because I want to see pretty much every production this year. I opened it up to the first production in the Minerva…. The place that is the closest spot to heaven in my stupid, theatre buff heart. I must see that one. The next two in the main Festival Theatre…. Ooooo must see that, and that. Then I will be back in the Minerva for a new play ‘First Light’,  by Mark Hayhurst. That is a ‘must see’ for me. This is set in the First World War. The Battle of the Somme. I’m going to try to calm down now and stop gabbling at this point before I have a seizure.   

When joining my husband on work trips through France (we have a small antiques import/export business near Arundel), we have driven past this now peaceful place on countless occasions. We usually stop for coffee and a few moments of reflection.  The main noise is now, is just the squawking of ducks and geese.

We have also in out travels spent time in Poperinge in West Flanders, Belgium where the battles also raged on bloody, muddy fields.

Below is a photo of the execution post in the centre of the town where deserters would meet the firing squad. And following that my poetry about seeing that place.

 

 

The Post 

A post, plain iron,

Juts heavenward

From the stone cobbles

In supplication to a deity

Once more offering a son. 

The courtyard is elaborate in style;

Compared to the post. 

Behind the post

A monument;

An image depicting sandbags

Their purpose

To absorb deaths bullets. 

Rising six floors, a narrow round tower

Crowned, church like with an iron finial.

Shamed by the military operation

Performed at the base. 

Bright morning light heralds a new day

Seemingly oblivious

To the figure;

A young soldier

Takes his last breath

Then slumps

At the execution post. 

Shot at dawn.

 

Albert Bottfield 

Twenty eight years old

And found himself at war

Expected to be brave and bold

Midst all the mud and gore. 

Just a private in the army

Huddled fearful in a trench

Explosions driving good men barmy

Trembling held with jaws that clench. 

Terror mounts with each grenade

See good friends ripped apart

Each command must be obeyed

Horror, in his head and heart. 

Another blast, so near this time

Weakening as all valour fades

Endless conflict crouched in grime

Remembered jokes from lost comrades. 

On that early autumn day

As battle raged no end in sight

From his post he ran away

Confused and damaged out of fright. 

Remembering his oath of duty call

Returned from where he fled

A coward held by a prison wall

Shot at dawn, he fell and bled. 

Executed for cowardice. 18^th Oct. 1916 5.50 am