Last year, for Remembrance Sunday, I wrote Poppies are also for you
This year, I wrote this. I know it's now Thursday and not Wednesday, but it's also my Wednesday Words offering. It came from seeing a widow being asked what Remembrance Sunday meant to her. Watching her well up, I was sent thinking back through time.
Remembrance Sunday
She's just a child, age seven,
Shivering at a monument,
Sitting through the sermon that she doesn't understand,
On another Remembrance Sunday.
She's just a girl, age seventeen,
Slouching round the house in a dressing gown,
Watching the veterans march past the cenotaph,
On another Remembrance Sunday.
She's grown now, at twenty seven,
Quickening life inside her,
Standing next to her man as Padre speaks,
On another Remembrance Sunday.
Over the years she's seen so many,
Services from the village, London, from the Falklands, from Iraq,
She's said the words that she always says,
Stood the way she always does,
But never has it meant so much,
Now he's away in desert sands,
On this Remembrance Sunday.
She's older now, age thirty-seven
A small hand clutches hers,
As tears roll down their faces, unchecked,
On another Remembrance Sunday.
For he shall grow not old...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone so don't mock the spelling and I'll be back later to sort the layout!
