The Tracks of Winifred Holtby
Following in the tracks of Winifred Holtby
On a trail over the flowing hills,
A hare gallops through the rising corn,
A kestrel hangs on the edge of the wind,
Wings fluttering.
Nothing changes.
The ghost of Vera Brittain
Strides alongside us
Informing us of injustice and inequality,
As we traverse the Dales.
The rolling hills of England,
Falling away towards the pastel, misty trees in the distance.
The sun sends slanting beams
Striking the church
Of Rudston, nestling in the valley,
As time stands still
In a scene that has never changed
And we are transported.
Only the monolith stands the test of time.
The socialist dream consumed by the conflagration of lies.
As Winifred and Vera become lauded brief flickers
Shedding light on life from a niche in history
From where equality, tolerance and fairness
Were worth fighting for.
Opher – 28.4.2024
Socialist writers and friends, pacifists, feminists and activists, these two colossi strode these hills, shared their vision for a better world and wrote their dreams.
They fought for a better world, a socialist vision in which intolerance and elitism, misogyny and greed were replaced by a fairer system, a meritocracy blind to race or gender, social class and status. They wrote honestly to bring a better world into reality.
Their vision was consumed in the fires of capitalist greed. People made money out of their work. Their dreams were never realised.
Yesterday we walked those hills, following in their footsteps, basking in nature. It was as if we had gone back in time. The fields, trees and village were arrested in some unholy time-warp. No signs of modernity were visible. Our eyes saw the same as theirs.
Yet the world of their day was unrecognisable.
Their dreams incinerated on the altar of profit.
We visited her grave.