Leslie Coulson: a poem for Remembrance day

Today is Sunday 11th November 2012. It’s Remembrance Day 2012. On this day, we remember those who fought wars, abandoned their families in order to protect them or fight for their freedom. Some of them got back home, others did not.

Among those who lost their lives in the trenches was Sergeant Leslie Coulson. Leslie was born in Hendon and lived in Kilburn, London. He had taken after his father Frederick Coulson, who was a columnist for the Sunday Chronicle, and became assistant editor for the Evening News. He enjoyed long walks in the countryside, especially on weekends and on holidays. Despite having been counselled to enlist in an Officers’ Training Corps, he decided to go to war as a simple soldier and “do the thing fairly“. His war started in September 1914, but it was on Christmas Eve 1914 that he left for Malta, and later went to Egypt and Gallipoli, Italy, where he was slightly wounded. He was just 27 when he was wounded in France, during the Battle of Le Transloy, and died the next day, on 8th October 1916. His works were collected and published by his father the following year and the book, titled “From an Outpost and Other Poems” sold 10,000 copies in 1917 alone.

The poem I have chosen amongst those which have been published, is perhaps one of the lesser known. Leslie Coulson’s most remembered poems are “Who Made The Law” and “Rainbow“, but I believe “Over The Hill” displays a clever implement of metaphor, referring to himself and his fellow soldiers, and his own generation. He shows a sensitive side and ability to select overtly emphasising words, adding to the effect of musicality and grace this poem has and communicates to the reader.

To all those who lost their lives at war. May you rest in peace. Lest we forget.

Over the Hill

Over the hill, over the hill,
I saw a man pass by;
A soft brown tan was on his cheek
And a sparkle in his eye;
A stout ash stick he bore in his hand,
He whistled with joyous trill,
Out of the shadows I watched him go
Over the hill.

Over the hill, over the hill,
The clouds float high and low,
Golden and white, and cold, cold grey,
A-sailing past they go.
They hang at anchor like carven ships
When the wind is calm or still,
But always they sail when the sun goes down
Over the hill.

Over the hill, over the hill,
The wind blows sweet to me -
Sweet with the scent of the new-turned earth
And the scent of the salt white sea.
It cries with the cry of a veering gull,
It whispers and whistles shrill,
But always it comes with a message for me
Over the hill.

Over the hill, over the hill,
I see the strangers go,
I watch them mount against the sky
And when the clouds drift low,
I watch them fade in the wet, grey mist,
And when the night is still,
I hear them stealing quietly past,
Over the hill.

University of Toronto – Libraries:
“From an Outpost and Other Poems” (1917)

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