Between The Crosses Row on Row

It is not the 11th yet, but close enough. I am fifty-eight years old. In my memorable life time I have not had to face the ravages of war, I have not had to bury friends because of conflicts.
What amazes me is that eleven o’clock when we (hopefully) stop our day for two minutes we remember those who died for the cause think of the men and women who were killed for us, as old frail men and women whose bodies are now giving in with the age that time has passed.
The fact is those who died were young, vibrant youths whose life had but begun. They were in their late teens or early twenties,some even lied about their age to serve us.
In two short a time those left will as well pass too,
There are 525,960 minutes in a year take the two they deserve
Least we Forget….



IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.