The Eleventh hour of the Eleventh day.

The Eleventh hour of the Eleventh day.

So many ghosts

Stand to attention.

A lonely vigil

Barely heard

And rarely seen.

Buried in hollows,

Lying in wooden boxes,

Hidden away

Between folded pages

Covered,

In the dust of yesterday,

Where the air is

Still and thin,

Lives are counted

In the hearts

Of those still beating,

A retreat

To the better part

Of valour.

And as those

Faithful comrades wait,

Arthritically poised,

Stiffened backs

Frail with age,

Thin arms, bent

To salute the fallen

With suppressed tears

And noble tremors

Finding it

Harder to breathe

For a moment of

Savage silence

With each slow march,

A chest full of medals,

Rattling

With survivor guilt,

Before the tomb

Self sacrifice built,

The only sound is

Ben’s saddening toll.

Marking the time

Before the last post calls

Those souls forgot,

To be remembered

In passing.

A parade

Where victory is waved

In the sad,

Mouldered flags,

Of history

As every day

A land once so green

And pleasant,

Still well stocked

With Grouse and Pheasant

Drifts further

From its promise

To be a land,

Both fit for purpose

And for heroes.