Remembrance Day - The Poem 'A Thousand Leaves'.

- A Thousand Leaves -

By Christianna.

A thousand leaves blew through the town
The brass band played it's rousing sound
Twas dirges only, all abound.
On Remembrance day.

The air was heavy with nostalgia
A solemn cloud hung, nothing stirred
We mourned their passing for our future
On Remembrance day.

We marched in line with dignitary
Soldiers, RAF, and the Royal Navy
A myriad of leaves, souls memories
On Remembrance Day.

We raised the standards, one by one
We stood stock still, hid from the sun
Cadets were dropping, one by one
On Remembrance Day.

The trombone player fell to the ground
The band played on it's funeral sound
They laid their wreaths upon the ground
On Remembrance day.

People shuffled, coughed in choir
babies cried, the elderly tired
I felt my soul leap, I felt on fire
On remembrance Day.

I used to sneer upon this day
I would debate a poppy to pay
To celebrate war was not my way
On Remembrance Day.

I laid a cross, and sang a hymn
I waited for the silence to begin
My feet were cold, my lips were thin
On Remembrance Day.

I learnt a lesson on that day
I learnt of death, and of decay
Of soldiers who had paved our way
I learnt all that, on Remembrance Day.

My daughter marched within the line
Her head held high, with straight eyeline
Her hands clasped tight, this child of mine

Their death, for her future
On Remembrance Day.

Copyright Christianna 2005

I attended Remembrance Day parade 2005. It was my first time. My daughter who was at University Of Sussex, and in the Royal Navy Reserves, marched within the Ceremony. Events within the poem actually happened and Remembrance Day had such a marked effect upon me, that I felt compelled to write this.

A copy of my Poem hangs in the Halls of the University of Sussex.
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Remembrance Sunday also known as Poppy Day, Armistice Day, or Veterans Day is a day to commemorate the sacrifices of members of the armed forces and of civilians in times of war, specifically since the First World War.

The main national commemoration is held at Whitehall, in Central London, for dignitaries, the public, and ceremonial detachments from the armed forces and civilian uniformed services such as the Merchant Navy, Her Majesty's Coastguard, etc. Members of the British Royal Family walk through the Foreign and Commonwealth Office towards the cenotaph, assembling to the right of the monument to wait for Big Ben to strike 11:00 am, and for the King's Troop, Royal Horse Artillery at Horse Guards Parade, to fire the cannon marking the commencement of the 2 minutes of silence.

Following this, "The Last Post" is played by the buglers of the Royal Marines. "The Rouse" is then played by the trumpeters of the Royal Air Force, after which, to Beethoven's "Death March," wreaths are laid by attendees in the following order: the Queen; senior members of the Royal Family attending in military uniform; the Prime Minister; the leaders of the major political parties from all parts of the United Kingdom; Commonwealth High Commissioners to London, on behalf of their respective nations; the Foreign Secretary, on behalf of the British Dependencies; the Chief of the Defence Staff; the First Sea Lord; the Chief of the General Staff; the Chief of the Air Staff; representatives of the merchant navy and Fishing Fleets and the merchant air service.

Junior members of the Royal Family usually watch the service from the balcony of the Foreign Office. The service is generally conducted by the Bishop of London, with a choir from the Chapels Royal, in the presence of representatives of all major faiths in the United Kingdom. Before the marching commences, the members of the Royal Family and public sing the national anthem before the Royal Delegation lead out after the main service.

Wikepedia.

'Wilfred Owen is known by many as the leading poet of the First World War. His poetry, does not spare the reader from the horror's of war. His influences stem from his friend Siegfried Sassoon, and stand in stark contrast to the idealistic prose of poets such as Rupert Brooke'. ~

- Dulce et Decorum est -

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,choking, drowning.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

March, 1918

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www.world-war-pictures.com/war-poet-wilfred-owen.htm

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.

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.