A Poem For Remembrance Sunday


On a cold November Sunday morn, an old man sits a while

Looking through old photographs, he can't help but smile

They're all there, all the boys, with hair cut short and neat

Uniforms of khaki, strong black boots upon their feet.

They met as strangers but soon became like brothers to the end

Smiling at the camera, there could be no truer friends.

They all took the Queen's shilling, went off to fight the hun

Soon learnt the pain of loss once the fighting had begun.

So many never made it home, lost on foreign shores

Many more were injured and would be the same no more.

The old man's eyes mist with tears as he remembers every face

Each of his fallen brothers and the killing which took place.

He proudly dons his blazer, his beret and his tie

For today he will remember the ones who fell and died.

On his chest there is a poppy, a blaze of scarlet on the blue

He steps out into the cold, he has a duty he must do

Once at the Cenotaph he stands amongst the ranks

Of those who marched to war and those who manned the tanks.

He bows his head in reverence, as the last post begins to play

And he wonders what will happen at the ending of his days

Will anyone remember? Will anybody care?

About the lads so far from home whose life was ended there?

I wish that I could tell him, that he should fear not

For this soldier and his brothers will NEVER be forgot

We owe a debt of gratitude that we can never pay

And this country WILL remember, on each Remembrance Day.

                                                                           MARIA CASSEE