A Day Passed…

May 3, 2013

[Edit: This post was meant to follow this Remembrance post back in 2011, for some reason or another it didn’t and it’s continued to sit in my draft box until now. As my last post was for my Dad’s birthday I’ve decided to post this now before I move on to another subject]

I didn’t mention this yesterday as I felt it wasn’t right to mix the death of so many brave people who have fought for our lives and freedom, who get their own special day with the death of my Father no matter how, for me, that one day brings so much grief and sadness as it does remembrance and happiness. I felt that I deal with the loss of my Father everyday that it would be much more respectful to leave Remembrance Day as one day to not mention the loss of my Father.


My Dad was a refugee in the Second World War and was evacuated from London to the country (he was ten or eleven at the time) where he spent most of his life until he joined the Navy. So my Dad lived through the Second World War (this still amazes me even today!), yet it wasn’t something he ever really talked about but he was always big on Remembrance Day and Remembrance Sunday respecting the two minutes silence to remember those who had fallen.
One of my Dad’s hobbies was writing poetry and I realised in 2009 just a bit before Remembrance Day that he had never written a poem about Remembrance and I remember talking to him one evening on the phone and asking him why he’d never written one and while he didn’t seem surprised that I asked, he had a answer for me. He told me that he just wasn’t sure how it would turn out if he wrote one. So I asked him to write one for me. Personally I’m not a big fan of poetry but I loved the clever way my Dad had with words.
Maybe one day I’ll share my copy of My Little Sausage Fred also by my Dad that I adored as a child.

So I asked him to write one for me. And he did. Afterwards I understood why he wasn’t sure about writing one as it did turn out a little morbid but I loved it and still do today.

In Flanders fields there poppies grow,
And in the fields of France,
They’re nurtured in those war- torn lands
By thousands blown apart.
Of the many dead and dying
Whose blood then drenched the ground
Most times we think of just the men
The fodder for the guns,
The maimed and all those blinded
Or dead from poison gas.
We tend to forget the others,
Those there but not from choice,
The horses, dogs and all those mules
Who didn’t stand a chance.
They laboured daily with the men
Hauling guns and ammunition,
They too were caught by exploding shells
And blown straight to perdition.
But what of those which did survive?
What help did they receive?
Who thought about their trembling limbs
Their frightened minds as well?
Men weren’t the only creatures there
Who went through living hell.

We oft forget the others
Who died upon the seas,
They fought the enemy oft unseen
Above, and below the waves
And found a watery grave.
No poppies stand or wave in air
For those who died at sea,
Though their numbers not as great
Call out “Remember me!”

The poppy is a symbol
To remind “lest we forget.”
That it only takes a single man
To wreak more havoc yet!
Is that why those poppies
So vibrant, red of hue
Remind us of the fallen
Their blood that colour too?

                                                                     12/13th November, 2009

My Dad wrote that Remembrance poem four months before he died. It was the last completed poem he ever wrote. It’s extra special for me in my heart because he wrote it partly because I asked him to and because it was the last one he wrote. When my Dad passed I wanted to get a tattoo to remember him by, my boyfriend suggested one of my Dad’s poems and I used this one. Using the first two lines of the last stanza as my own form of Remembrance.

I’m pretty sure that my Dad wouldn’t have approved as he wasn’t keen on tattoo’s and body piercing’s but I love it and am glad everyday that I have it to make me remember.

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