FOR EVER MOURNED
On a damp and cold day.
Lies that bright, nostalgic symbol.
A Flanders-poppy spray;
And across the years a memory
Of a set-faced, solemn throng.
With the Legion banner leading
As they marched to Evensong.
Then the clink and glint of medals
In the mellow light of the Nave.
As the echoing trend dies to silence
For the lives their comrades gave.
Ah, the glamour of those stalwarts
Glimpsed through the hands of a lad:
'Who is the one with the creaky leg
And that long row of medals. Dad?'
But hush hear the names familiar
Of those who were left behind:
Names inscribed on the village cross
Etched with awe on a schoolboy's mind.
Then rise from the sermon soft-spoken
By that gentle voice steadfast:
Join in the hymn all-enduring:
O God our help in ages past.
The brightness of the poppies
Will fade in the Winter's rain:
Medals so carefully burnished
Will not be worn again.
For each November's passing
Leaves a gap in the ranks of the few,
Who with pride and sorrow blended.
Knelt when Remembrance was new.
The author of this poem is not known to me,