The clock struck 11.00.
A gun sounds,
Not in anger, but the start
Of a minute of contemplation.

Trooper Jones was not there,
In body anyway.
But in the mind of a two year old,
He lived on.

The little girl never knew Basra.
“Saddam who?” she asked.
“Sod em all,” her mum answered,
“They took Taff away.”

“Where is daddy, Mum?”
She asked softly.
“He plays with the Angels now
Fights the Devil no more.”

11.01, second gun sounds.
Tears wiped away.
A heavy heart for the next twelve months,
Or eternity, which is longer?

The little girl held mum’s hand.
They turned, backs the monument,

Walked away, disappeared into the mist.
Who are they? Do you know them?

We should not forget them.
Those left behind.