Today’s poem

THE 11TH HOUR

Each year they gather, a solemn bridgehead To salute the fallen and honour the dead. In assorted attire and smartly dressed With medals and honours bright on their chests. These gallant old men who fought alongside And watched in horror as their comrades died. They remember in silence, some with tears, Memories haunting them down through the years. The service is sombre, the ritual spare Just dignified pride to show how they care. Solemn prayers are offered, fine tributes paid Garlands and wreaths of poppies are laid. The bugles sound a haunting Last Post A respectful silence falls over the host. With two minutes to ponder the terrible price Paid for our freedom in a blood sacrifice. The silence ends with the notes of reveille And the veterans re-form for their closing rally. Proudly they muster and march on parade, A pageant of honour, not a charade. Their numbers are fewer each passing year But the act of remembrance is simple and clear To salute the fallen and honour the dead And challenge the living to try peace instead.