For those young soldiers who left to die.
I stand in grief and remember their pain and fear,
Lift a hand, wipe away a tear.
Listen to the sounds of gun and band
That would play The Last Post, then Reveille,
And ask for no more war in any land.
My lone tear becomes a flood.
I remember the terrors they never fled
And think of those returned home in coffins — dead.
The many who were never found.
I cannot stand by their grave and weep
But I can in my heart a vigil keep.
And hear the pipes and drums that beat.
The drums become their now stilled beating hearts,
The rain their tears shed in far away parts.
They fought in the trenches and mud.
For our freedom
They paid the ultimate price they could.
They fought in cold and flood.
In smells of gas and gun and gangrene stenches
Lay bodies soaked in blood.
Asking only we remember on bended knees.
Do not break faith with those who gave up life
That we may live unencumbered by strife.
The crowds were gone.
A stooped little old lady
Stood all alone.
By the departing hoards it had been trod.
Though dirty and wet and covered in sands,
She remembered for what that red poppy stands.
That red poppy she lovingly took and did lift
And raised it rememberingly
To touch quivering lip.
And pinned that red poppy on her lapel with pride.
Then turned to bronzed soldiers on the memorial set,
Patted that red poppy, saluted and said,
“Lest We Forget, Lest We Forget.”
Paton Lodge Lindsay