A flower that grows seemingly random,
emitting a warning so clear and right,
seen amongst the dead, in fields live with war,
Poppies all around red, vibrant and bright.

Cenotaph’s surrounded all over this land,
remember those who’ve gone before,
The sharp sound of the bugle playing the “Last post”
Plunged into mournful silence until “Reveille” is played once more.

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.”

Recited and wreaths are brought forward and placed
a prayer prayed for the families that remain, respect given for the lives lost.

Many brought to rememberance of those who gave their lives to protect and defend countries, both the land and the people. T’was the 11th hour, 11th day of the 11th month 1918 when the guns of the Western Front fell silent after more than four years continuous warfare. I remember many tales of the miraculous – angels and the remarkable hand of God intervening on behalf of soldiers from my nation, my town. What a memory, what experience, only a few remain from the world wars now, yet many have followed – fought and won, fought and died. Those also are remembered.

A solomn moment, yet precious in God’s eyes.