The emblems of eternal gratitude

A November morn in

Whitehall, with a chill upon

the air, Yet still they come, men bent

with age, to lay their

tributes there. So few are they, the truly

old, from the trenches of

the Somme Each year grown less in

number with memories

reaching from Their days of youth, long

years ago, and in the

autumn cold They honour those, their

boyhood friends, the ones

who grew not old. It seems to them as yesterday

although ageing bodies tell Of infirmity and failing health

yet they remember well The names of comrades, Bill

and Jack, who marched

with them to war Who, when peace came at

bitter price, were among the

lads no more. Where some soldiers lie

no one can tell, they rest in

foreign lands, As those who marched to war

with them lay wreaths with

gnarled, old hands. We must not forget the debt we

owe to generations gone, To those who died that we

might live, the memories

linger on In the hearts of those who

knew them, yet the passing

years must mean That there soon will be no

memories of those days that

once had been. They will become a part of

history, yet the scarlet

poppy flower Will be November’s emblem

of remembrance at the 11th

day’s 11th hour.

Mrs L. M. Wadlow,

Redditch, Worcs.