Poetry corner At the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier Your mother knew you. She felt you in the womb. She washed and she dressed you, She kissed you and caressed you, Undreaming of your tomb. Your mother knew you. Your playmates knew you, When summer seemed unending And hide-and-seek was fun: Bang-banging with a gun; ‘You’re dead!’ – but just pretending. Your playmates knew you. Your teachers knew you. A scamp? A lonely child? A struggler with a stammer? A ‘good enough for grammar school’? A truant running wild? Your teachers knew you.
Ode to the Fallen We lie in the trenches with mud all around, While young men are dying, alone on the ground, With life oozing out of their bloody-red wounds, They seem in cruel death long-sought peace to have found.
Your comrades knew you, Close-quartered in the trench; Sharing the mud, the shelling, The laughter and the yelling, The bully beef, the stench. Your comrades knew you.
Thousands of men in this war have been lost, Giving their lives without counting the cost, And though these brave men may have given the most, What use is a medal to a spirit or ghost? For king and for country these men gave their all When they left home behind just to answer the call, But what can be done for the man who must fall When the best he can have is black night for his pall?
But now – who knows? In strange and silent fame You plead for countless others: Lost parents, sisters, brothers, Dear friend, without a name. Who knows? God knows.
But one thing I know as I pull out this pin And watch bombs explode in a flash of dead tin, One thing sees me through all the danger and din: God’s Son’s on his throne and with him we shall win!
JOHN COUTTS
JIM BURNS
At the Drum Head We watch soldiers dressed in regimental splendour solemnly carry drums to a raised area; Placing them one on top of the other for all to see, while remembering the ceremony of building a temporary altar in the mud on the battlefield at the Somme; The ceremonial history, the battle honours won, the horrors of war, fallen heroes their duty done.
No cries of joy, no laughter or cheers as the Union Jack flies at half-mast; While battle honours are draped. A book of remembrance is held high for all to see, then placed atop the drums as standard bearers lower flags; And a lone bugler sounds the Last Post salute.
Muffled drums beat and a choir softly sings as veterans and serving soldiers stand to attention, proud and respectful while poppies fall as if from the sky. Every poppy a story, a person, a home, a family, a photograph, a memory, a place and a name in stone.
As tears fall from our eyes, we watch and pray and say: ‘We will remember them, We will remember them.’ BOB WELCH
Salvationist 13 November 2021
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