On the eleventh day
And at the eleventh hour
In a cold and wintry November
We choose that very moment
That specific time
At which we will remember
At the moment of the Armistice
When the big guns ceased to fire
Memories that will never cease
Thinking of those poor Tommies
Forced to fight for King and Country
In pursuit of lasting peace
Now at that lumpen marble stone
The whitened Cenotaph
Gather men in darkened suits
Wearing poppies on sharp lapels
Holding rounded, heavy wreaths
Within the sound of marching boots
The sombre tolling of Big Ben
A minute’s empty, windy silence
The Last Post sounding clear
Thinking of The Fallen
Blood spilt, lives lost
In many lands, both far and near
Respect for those departed
Who laid down their lives in war
Red and white flowers on this Sunday
But soldiers coming home
Face a daily battle
Like how to cope with Monday
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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