Lest We Forget
eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month
The bright red poppy is regarded as a resilient flower, which managed to
flourish despite fields being destroyed by war
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
This is a poem that my Grandfather
wrote in 1916 about
how they managed at home, with their 5 sons at war.
Thankfully all came home.
A Mother's Love
Their boys - some in khaki and some in blue,
Through Hells fiery furnace have fought, and come through
And Mothers at home, have fought battles as well
And torments of anguish, as no man can tell.
Watching the postman, hearing his knock
Startled and frightened, trembling in shock,
Searching the papers, in anguish of mind,
Hoping and fearing, that his name she will find.
No news for months, perhaps, Oh! the suspense
The suffering of Mothers, is pain that's intense.
Then, better than no news, a wire, she recieves
To say son is wounded, it even relieves
The tension of feelings, to awful to bare,
Even to know he's alive, is good news to her
And a short whispered prayer, ascends up above
To God for his goodness and mercy and love.
Please do not copy this without mentioning
William Barwick and where you copied it from,
it is copyrighted.