Let Us Not Forget

The winds blew cold across 
the battle-scarred fields
We had only our packs 
and the ground as our shields.

The old soldier’s eyes mist over, and grow distant
as he sees what we can’t and hopes we never will.

The air was rent 
with the sound of shells
that shattered sky and earth 
in that living hell 

He fights the urge to cry as he fingers the edges
of an old creased photograph with trembling hand.

One minute cries rang out 
‘stay down, keep cover’
the next, the soldier at my side
— his life was over.

He holds onto his dignity; lifts his ageing head up high
and slips the picture back inside his left breast pocket

Only inches lay, that day, 
between his death and my life.
Why had I lived, while he died?
— I cried for his widowed wife.

Fingers smooth over his lapel, and linger on the poppy there.
He takes a breath, readies for the march, and says:

For him, and all who fell, 
I march this cold November,
for on this day, and every day,
we all must remember. 


november 2004
©Janet Reid





Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Nov 11, 2007





Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Nov 8, 2006






Awarded by New Horizons ~ Nov 12, 2005




Awarded by Friendly Musings ~ Nov 14, 2004