They stand, as they have stood before
For many years, their faithful duty to perform.
And though the flesh is weaker now and eyes are dim,
The will is strong. We will remember them.
Their comrades, who untimely snatched
From youthful vigour, never to grow old like them,
Must surely in some other world
Await the promised sweet reunions.
The clock is striking now, their heads are bowed
In silence broken by the bugle’s call,
Their eyes are closed, each bears a memory
Perhaps untold, too personal to share.
Alone in foreign graveyards, widows kneel
Remembering young husbands, telling them
Of grown-up children whom they scarcely knew,
Of grandchildren and the all the news from home.
As if their tears were not enough, the rain begins to fall,
A cold November rain, and sodden wreaths of poppies droop
Like gouts of blood falling from those whose sacrifice
Won them a resting place, and peace for us.