Forest poet David Holmes' "journey to discover his grandfather's war" has led to the publication of one of his verses in a newsletter published by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

After being contacted by David Symons, the Commission's director of communications, Mr Holmes, who lives in Lydney, wrote a new poem entitled 'Still Here' especially for the newsletter.

Mr Holmes' grandfather, John Holmes, was born in Rothy, Leicestershire. He served in the First World War and died from injuries received in France. He is buried in a War Graves Commission cemetery in St Leger.

Mr Holmes said it was not until the death of his father, who was blinded while on active service in the Second World War, that he realised he knew very little about his grandfather.

"I felt I owed it to him to find out what I could and to visit his grave at least once," said Mr Holmes. "It was then that I began to write poems – they turned into a potted history of my grandfather's war and were eventually published in book form called 'For John, Winston and, of course, Harry'. It was this work which was seen by Mr Symons."

Mr Holmes told the Review he felt proud his poetry had been seen as a medium that could encourage others to make the journey and visit the last resting place of relatives. He was honoured, he said, to support the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

•Copies of Mr Holmes' book can be obtained from him (Dean 841548) or through www. david4poetry@msn.

com

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Still here !

I walked slowly,

'cross coiffured grass,

climbed a gentle slope.

I had not visited him before,

was not sure,

could I cope?

I knew that he was waiting there,

together, with some mates,

silently I opened,

a metal, picket gate.

A few stone steps,

a gentle climb,

no whistles blowing shrill,

In this quiet and gentle place

in the lee, of this, now,

sacred, hallowed hill.

There seemed to be so many here,

resting, in the sun.

And there he waited,

as he had done, for close on 80 year.

A man, whom I'd never known,

but who my Gran and Dad hold dear.

All smartly there, on parade,

starched white and all in line,

red roses in a garden,

the whole place looked sublime.

An English country garden,

in this field in France,

where once,

so many years before,

death and poppies danced.

200 men, or thereabouts

sleeping for all time.

British and some Germans

holding straight, the line.

I stood there, head bowed,

what to say,

in this peace filled place,

and realised, as I stood silently,

that tears ran down my face.

The sun shone brightly in the sky

a gentle cooling breeze,

as I sank slowly down,

to pray there, on my knees.

The wooden cross, with poppy red,

I planted there that day

a simple loving gesture

that just tried to say,

'Thank you boys',

for what we have,

for what you gave away,

that precious gift of life,

and your very own 'today'.

© David Holmes February 2012