- Contributed by听
- Pamela7416-Friendly Welsh Dragon
- Article ID:听
- A1936848
- Contributed on:听
- 30 October 2003
This is a poem about a Remembrance Day ceremony. The war was over before I was born,but my parents were there and have their memories. So did my grandparents, who are no longer here. For our children, World War Two is only a history lesson. What do we tell them.
The Eleventh Hour.
One November morning,in the centre of the town,
A crowd stood by the statue in the square.
A small girl and her grandad, walking hand-in-hand,
Joined with those already waiting there.
The girl looked down in puzzlement at the statue's base.
She had seen it several times before,
But this time it was different, for rings of flowers lay
Spread out like a carpet on the floor.
The flowers were the same as the one on Grandad's coat.
He'd pinned it on before they left that day.
He'd told her it was special, but she hadn't understood.
At two years old, her thoughts were all of play.
The striking of the Town Hall clock, with chimes loud and clear
Gave out a signal to the waiting crowd.
The girl stood there in wonder as the chatter stopped,
Silence fell, and many heads were bowed
Remembering so many, lost in so many wars,
Wondering if they will ever cease ?
How many extra names must be added to that list
Before our world will learn to live in peace ?
Filled with curiosity, she tugged her grandad's sleeve.
She wanted now to try to understand.
She reached up for the poppy and he took it from his coat
And placed it gently in her tiny hand.
He sighed 'You are so very young.How can I explain
The special meaning of this small red flower
And why we all gather here on a November day
To stand in silence at the eleventh hour ?
Pamela Evans.
Mid Glamorgan. South Wales.
漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.