They sit no more at familiar tables of home..

Our town honoured the fallen with a parade on Remembrance Sunday, so we stood watching, as uniformed soldiers, service personnel, First Aiders, Air Cadets and of course, the British Legion veterans, marched proudly across the old stone bridge to pay respect to their comrades, at the War Memorial.

It was a beautiful, cold, crisp November day.

Polly and Betty, wearing poppy bandanas as a mark of respect, were on their very best behaviour, as we followed the march up the road, to join in the Service of Remembrance.

After the service, we headed to a little snack bar for hot drinks and freshly cooked sausages to thaw us, before walking back to the memorial to see the poppy wreaths and to pay our own respects.

It was lovely to witness the town coming together to honour those who gave their lives to protect us, to hear the congregation singing the National Anthem together and to listen to the bugle play the 'The Last Post', but the most moving moment was as we read the hand written message on a tiny wooden cross laid at the end of a row of similar such crosses in the garden, placed discreetly behind the main War Memorial...

It read simply.

'For my Dad'.

The Fallen
Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

A green and pleasant land

We walked into town to watch the Remembrance Day Parade yesterday morning, standing silent with the rest of the town at 11am, to pay our respects to those fallen in war.

It was a moving experience to watch regiments marching smartly across the old bridge, especially the veterans. Polly and Betty wore poppy neckerchiefs to show support and made us proud by sitting to attention at the kerbside as the soldiers marched past. They posed for photographs and gave a polite paw to anyone when asked ...  they raised many smiles and many compliments. I was proud of them, so to say thank you, we bought a large freshly cooked sausage from a nearby kiosk to reward them after the ceremony. It had been well earned!

As we paid our respects and gave thanks, I thought about how far we are now from the days when fear permeated our entire country and the world beyond. After all, we are only a century forward from those obscene trenches of war where sons, husbands and fathers, fought on foot for our freedom, so many never to return to their loved ones. 

Peace is so fragile and for our freedom, I think we owe more than we can ever fully know...

Dulce et Decorum Est

by Wilfred OwenLaunch Audio in a New Window

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.