Seemingly the whole village turned out
that Sunday, a cold crisp day in November.
The band from the local academy led the way,
followed by church representatives, school children
in scout uniforms, marching to the steady drums beat.
Mums and Dads with prams followed behind
whilst grandparents watched with pride, their grandchildren
parading by on their way to the cenotaph.
A moving, memorial service, the previous evening
in the presence of the Queen, was transmitted to the nation,
commemorating a century of sacrifice.
Eyes opened to the horrors of war, waste of life
symbolised by ceramic poppies flowing from the tower.
These acts of remembrance, one hundred years on,
are the passing bells, are the mourning choirs,
are the prayers, are the candles light,
that were so lacking in those muddy fields of death.
© Glenis Meeks
November 2014
