Wednesday, November 11, 2009



A nation stops, breaths hold,
eyes water,
history fills home and street.
Shop tills cease tolling their rabid gunfire,
cathedral choirs fall silent.

Generation gone,
Harry Patch and Henry Allingham
nod no longer before poppy carpets
and small wooden crosses -
the arboretum of splintered lives
remembered ragged bodies,
a sympathy of bones.

The last post never sounds its last post
the not so Great War didn’t herald
ploughshearing of sword and spear
grenade and Lee-Enfield.

Foreign fields greet falling bodies anew.
Tomorrows close their doors
to the betrayed young,
lives stolen by history’s stutter
take wings to Wooton Bassett.

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