The season of dancing leaves through more than a hundred years
Gently swishing aside their oft remembered youthful fears
I watch the TV programme with a learned respect
Of a lost generations wishing their march past the Cenotaph
Could eradicate their memories that can plunge them to the depths.
The season to remember and to strike at our breast
For the eradication of a generation long ago, laid to rest
Do they march out of duty?
Do we sympathise with their cause?
Don’t we walk the road of jingoism with an ill thought out death of beauty?
Each year I follow the ceremony’s deep rooted tradition
The repeated melodies of my gran and yours
Torn apart from their lovers in a futile endless fight
They walk in familiar silences
As if assuring the ghosts of loved ones, that they were now alright.
This year my emotions brimmed over like the sunshine on their well worn caps
The Forgotten Army Veterans whose numbers were few; proud, enduring chaps
Crept forward leading the troops at the front of the march; an honour to behold
They were pushed in their wheelchairs or marched at a steady speed
I hear them whisper “please remember”; future generations must hear our story unfold.
My Dad a veteran of Burma came back a broken man
A war that broke his spirit in the fight against the Japanese plan
Died before retiring; betrayed by a society who had long moved on
Did not inspire his family to have a soldier’s life
Abandoned a wife; he felt the warrior life was a con.
As they took the salute I did so too; tears washed down my face
That so many young lives were wiped, then, from the human race
I pictured a photo of my long missed father in a mist
Standing proudly amongst his fellows, tall
Straight backed, rigid at Ninety with a defiant pointed fist.
Please let me erase Kipling’s “60 seconds worth off distance run”
These emotive words of “IF” woven into my crazy childhood, done
For I no longer believe in that patriarchal tune
My father was the true “Man My Son”
If war was erased yesterday that would not be too soon.
I cannot bring my Father back, nor wish a childhood undone
But I can bring up the next generation under my roof of non-conformity
As age wearies me and the going down of my sun
For him; he gave their tomorrows, so they may peacefully grow old
“Here is our peace” I whisper as I cuddled my grandson.
Anastasia Pollard 4.12.17
Anastasia Pollard 