During my late teens and early 20s I played euphonium for Aldridge Brass and the WM Police bands playing at many Remembrance Sundays, mostly on crisp winter sunny days. Always, the most poignant site was the veterans standing there proudly at attention and then marching proudly, heads as high as they were able. I was lucky enough to be in Belgium last remembrance Sunday at the Menin Gate Ypres and the experience was the most touching I have ever attended. This year, I shall be watching the parade on the TV, I know I will be missing the live atmosphere but at least I will have a comfortable grandstand seat.
I moderate on another forum and one of the members contributed this poem, he claims it to be his own work and has given permission for it to be disseminated here.
The Veteran
Bent with age the old man stands,
His trousers pressed, his buttons shined,
With trembling, liver-spotted hands,
And eyes, once blue, now all but blind.
He does not see, as you and I,
The traffic passing in the street.
Instead he sees the Flanders sky,
Feels Flanders mud beneath his feet.
We dream of tinsel, snow, and joy.
We shop for gifts for near and dear.
He thinks of guns, aimed to destroy
And trenches where men hid in fear.
He sees his brothers, friends, and cousins
Now buried under foreign turf.
We hear the Christmas bells by dozens,
Presaging jollity and mirth.
We buy our mince pies, cards and wrapping,
Then hurry home to the TV set.
He walks along, white cane a-tapping
To sell his poppies, Lest We Forget.
Bent with age the old man stands,
His trousers pressed, his buttons shined.
We hurry past, bags in our hands,
Important matters on our minds....?
