Hal G.P. Colebatch: Two Poems

A Restoration?

In January 2017, the regional court of Wuppertal, Germany, acquitted Arab arsonists guilty of setting fire to a local synagogue in 2014, declaring it a legitimate political protest to draw “attention to the Gaza conflict” with Israel, and “deemed the attack not to be motivated by antisemitism”.

—Gatestone Institute, March 2017

 

Hitler in Hell is walking tall:

“It seems we’re winning after all!

 

“A German court has just decreed

Synagogue-burners may be freed.

 

“Right across Europe, by and large,

Jew-hate’s now often free of charge.

 

“It’s spreading in many different ways,

Just like the Third Reich’s good old days.”

 

He rubs his hands and strokes his chin

And turns to Himmler with a grin:

 

“In Denmark too—and this is cool—

They’ve banned some Jewish kids from school.

 

“A Swedish paper broke the news,

It’s now OK to hate the Jews.

 

“We’ve only to wait to hear our song,

And I think the waiting won’t take long.

 

“Synagogue-burning’s just a start

But soon they’ll play the real man’s part.

 

“But it’s enough to show our stamp
The grave, the extermination camp,

 

“Will follow logically, I think,

When democracy’s gone off the brink

 

“Although, of course, the whole great game

May be played in democracy’s own name.

 

“Wherever they may try to hide,
We’ll offer them a free train-ride!

 

“The old Jew-hate is still the same,

It’s only had a change of name,

 

“Spreading in many a street and town,

Sometimes in red shirt, not in brown.

 

“Or it may wear an Arab face.

We’ll ally with that lower race.

 

“Were I allowed, I’d place a bet,

I’d say the Fourth Reich’s coming yet

 

“It’s coming, I think it’s coming fast.

We’ll have Europe Judenrein at last.”

 

Hal G.P. Colebatch

 

Seagulls etc.

 

My grandfather, Sir Frank Gibson,

Used to take me

Down to the Fremantle esplanade

To “feed the seagulls”

With thrown crusts of bread

Which he must have saved.

And though they did not RSVP

They never refused the invitation.

 

Then we would walk on to the fishing-boat harbour,

Where Biblical-looking old men

Mended their red nets.

 

At Easter he took me to the Fremantle oval

To watch the fire-brigade exercises,

Rounded off in the evening

With pipe-bands and Scottish sword-dances.

 

Sometimes we walked along the deep-sea wharves

Of Victoria Quay, with their ships and sailors but more

Their population of individualists

Fishing from the landing-stages below.

 

And sometimes

To cocktail-parties on the quarterdeck

Of a visiting cruiser, while I

Stared up at its aftermost

Triple 6-inch gun turret.

 

Or we walked on the green hill

Of the war memorial,

Where he told me: “This is a sacred place.”

 

Once a magician came to the Orient Hotel,

Where grandfather was a permanent resident,

And in the marvellous “big room”

(It must have been an old,

Long-disused ballroom)

Did card-tricks for us.

 

The walls of grandfather’s bedroom

Were covered with crests and pictures,

Signed by the crews of ships

That had been presented to him

During the war.

 

Of all the old gentleman’s unappreciated

Or too late appreciated

Goodnesses to me,

And his attempts to replace my father

(Dead when I was seven)

These things proved surely

That it may take little

To make a happy memory.

 

Hal G.P. Colebatch