by | Jun 12, 2013 | Poetry | 0 comments

The mason took his mallet and chiseled into stone,
The name of my Grandfather – a man I’d never known.
His grave is somewhere over there beside the River Somme,
His picture hangs above the fire in my Grandmother’s home.

And silent in the city square a cenotaph does stand,
His name is there among his mates, the lads of my homeland,
Who sailed away one sunny day to struggle and to fight.
In Flanders fields they gave their lives for what they thought was right.

The scribe he took his artist’s pen and carefully inscribed,
Into a book of airmen in the Church of Clement Danes,
The names of those who soared aloft and battled in the skies,
Whose memory is carved by grief upon their mothers’ eyes.

Somewhere within a village church by some brass-plated pew,
A tablet to the memory of Admiral who knows who.
He was a child’s grandfather, he was somebody’s dad.
A floating wreath upon the deep was all the grave he had.

And now the clarions all ring out and jubilantly cry,
At last the War is over and no more have to die.
In every peal a thousand chimes, each toll for one who did,
That we from fear and tyranny might finally be rid.

To the great names of Wellington, of Nelson, Churchill, too,
White crosses in green fields, white contrails in the blue.
Eight Bells a fitting tribute to those who give their all
With bravery and valour so that Britain will not fall.


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