A cold morning of clouds. A drip and drizzle of rain. I’m in a Remembrance Day parade.
We gather around – like a herd – and stand for the two-minute silence.
We hold our breath like a thought.
The wreathes. The commoners. The important dignitaries.
We listen to a couple of speeches. Someone reads out a poem.
Then a bugle. The Last Post.
No one speaks. But someone sniggers.
We bow in polite reverence as if there’s a meaning in our remembrance, as if gods and deities move amongst us.
So many voices. So many wars. Young blood. The glory. The sacrifice.
In the distance, I imagine no-man’s land. The trenches. The rapid rattle of rifles.
Owen. The pity of war.
Sassoon. The satire.
I look at my poppy. A bit old, a bit torn, a bit tattered.
Somewhere in outer space, we make do. We play a part.
Today we wear tears like symbols of yesterday.