Frederick Ernest Woodford

With the 108th Anniversary of the R.M.S. Titanic tragedy coming up in a few days, I have written this poem in memory of a relative.

Frederick Ernest Woodford

A hard-working man was Frederick,
A relative of mine,
On a four-funnelled, steaming leviathan,
Owned by the White Star Line.

A greaser by trade, and the engines
Depended on him to run free.
He worked in the depths of her beating heart
While she sailed across the sea.

Leaving his family in Northam, Southampton,
He went off to earn his pay,
Little knowing of what was to come
On that catastrophic day.

11.40p.m. Sunday, 14th April, 1912.
It was a coal-black, freezing night.
When the ‘unsinkable’ hit the iceberg
With its 46,000 ton might.

The consequence was swift and harsh.
No hope for near all the ship’s crew.
Not enough lifeboats for passengers
No nearby ship for rescue.

Frederick was doomed as he floated away.
Did he die in anguished panic?
Or simply think ‘It was in God’s plan that
I serve on  R.M.S. Titanic’.

‘Look after my Susan and daughters.
Give them long and happy lives.
I won’t be there to see the girls
Grow up to become loving wives’.

And with that, Frederick left his life
Amongst the icy ocean’s waves
Where many others that fateful night
Would meet their watery graves.

Frederick’s wife did not fare well,
Nor his youngest daughter.
Little Annie-Freda. Diphtheria. 1914.
Susan. 1915. Tuberculosis had caught her.

The only one left was Susan-May.
She was but barely eight.
Adopted by a loving Aunt,
Her father’s last prayer not too late.

Throughout her life she’d always thought
That he had been buried at sea.
It said so in the letter from the White Star Line,
But she never questioned ‘Was he?’.

His body HAD been recovered,
A fact she never knew
And now lies in Halifax, Nova Scotia
In a cemetery called ‘Fairview’.

I didn’t know these people
But they are tied to me.
And I cannot help but be right proud
To call them Family.