The Unknown Soldier

Although I have no - one,
Sleeping under green sheets,
I bow my head lowly,
To respect all I meet.

Suddenly my heart breaks,
The sight puts us to shame,
The grave of a soldier,
With no insignia, no name.

He answered the calling,
Went to fight to be free,
His life is now over,
Lost to his own memory.

The battle has ended,
Years pass like they're flying,
The survivors are aging,
Living memories dying.

Back on the battleground,
Those thousands find rest,
Safe in the knowledge,
They all did their best.

Their families know them,
They know where they sleep,
Flowers and Crosses are laid,
Prayers said by their feet.

Stone pillows mark them,
Their name can be framed;
While that poor unknown soldier,
Still waits to be named.

# we will remember them

By Becky Clemett – May 2008

 

Respect

 

Silence engulfs them,

They stand in the crowd,

Head raised so high,

To show they are proud.

 

A pride that is born,

From their own suffering,

Memories flood back,

Each time they gather and sing.

 

The sound of gun fire,

Followed close by a boom!

They stand next to friends,

And share in their doom.

 

While mortar and shells,

Overhead are flying,

They stand in the trenches,

Knee deep in the dying.

 

One day each year,

They get to stand in the clear,

Surrounded by family and loved ones,

They slowly let out a tear.

 

Tears for friends lost,

Such a long time ago,

What would they be like?

Sadly no-one will know.

 

Like flowers in a field,

Lined up in a row,

They gather here yearly,

To let generations all know.

 

They’ve earned our respect,

By fighting for our freedom,

They deserve just one day,

Each and every one.

 

By Becky Clemett – 22^nd July 2008

Remembrance

 

The cold Winter’s looming,

With frost on the ground,

But stood in the town square,

Our heroes are found.

 

The day was planned so well,

Covering every tiny detail,

They all stand politely,

Hope their sticks will not fail.

 

They’ve walked these streets,

Each single new day,

But today they’ll be walked,

In a different way.

 

Time moves on swiftly,

The crowds line the route,

RSM now times them,

By tapping his boot.

 

With a prayer sent skywards,

To all those who have gone,

“This one’s for you Frank,

Another year, soldiering on”

 

Time seems to stand still,

As all parties arrive,

It’s so good to see this,

Reminds them all, they’re alive.

 

The young ones are nervous,

It spills through their skin,

They try to cover it up,

With a wide toothy grin.

 

A few words are barked now,

By the RSM to his men,

“Well do this right today,

Or be back once again”

 

As he inspects his small army,

Scolds about shirts and brasses,

He gets to the front row,

Just nods as he passes.

 

Pride washes over them,

Even though senior in years,

The RSM has passed them,

They can let go of their fears.

 

A hush washes over,

The large waiting crowd,

They hope to see loved ones,

And feel so proud.

 

The band in position,

They start with the drum,

This marks the beginning,

For everyone.

 

As they all move in time,

Left striking, then right,

All ages and backgrounds,

What a fantastic sight!

 

Heads held high, teeth clenched,

Against the cruel bitter cold,

They all had forgotten,

They are getting so old.

 

It’s worth all the waiting,

The cold and the pace,

To march over the bridge,

To see their grandchild’s sweet face.

 

Spurred on by memories,

Of why they are here,

They march on together,

Not weighted by fear.

 

The service is so long,

To stand, though at ease,

And God has been wicked,

Sending a cruel Winter breeze.

 

Young ones begin falling,

Yet they all still stand tall,

An air of discipline,

Washes over them all.

 

In silence they think,

Of friends lost long ago,

Buried under the earth,

To be covered with snow.

 

Holding back emotion,

As now they all pray,

The end is coming,

To a momentous day.

 

The band again marks them,

It’s time to go back,

Tired and weary,

They stride the long track.

 

Back in the square,

The burden is light,

It never goes away,

Just moves out of sight.

 

After a drink and some lunch,

It’s time to go home,

Safe in the knowledge,

They are not alone.

 

The wardrobe is opened,

Beret and poppy placed inside,

Ready for the next time,

It is worn with such pride.

 

By Becky Clemett – 23^rd July 2008

 

Trenches

 

The stench of a firefight,

Mud walls looming up high,

The reek of fresh fear,

Asking ‘Why – Oh God, Why?’

 

Moving of sick men,

Like they’re dead meat,

Waist high in slurry,

Death eats at their feet.

 

Impossible to walk,

Death sentence to stay,

Cut off in their prime,

If they get in the way.

 

Both armies moving,

Soon they will collide,

Making widows of women,

Not yet made a bride.

 

Dark as a dungeon,

Deep as a cave,

The trenches would soon be,

The tomb of the brave.

 

Like mice they scurried,

Too and fro in the slime,

Disease would soon take them,

Just a matter of time.

 

The weight of a lifetime,

Holding fate in their hands,

Loosing a battle,

Against some master plan.

 

So many fell there,

Before they could even grow,

Would they have been good men?

Sadly no-one will know.

 

Stretched on for miles,

Like a treacherous maze,

Trenches line fields,

Covered by a cruel amber haze.

 

Whole families fell there,

The young and the old,

Companies signed up employees,

To fight and be bold.

 

Thousands they lay there,

The rest battled on,

Fighting to survive,

In this battle ‘The Somme’

 

So many years pass,

Yet some still stand ground,

In fields of lush green,

Is where they will be found.

 

Holding forever,

A small piece of history,

A memory of freedom,

For you and for me.

 

By Becky Clemett – 23^rd July 2008

Realisation

 

The sun was so warm,

A sad sticky state,

As we pulled up in convoy,

Outside the black gate.

 

I stretch my legs slowly,

Step out of the car,

“We’re going to this one,

It isn’t too far”

 

As we walk up the hill,

Weight pulls at my frame,

We’re walking all this way,

To look for a name!

 

The small graveyard border,

Soon appears up ahead,

With Lilly white pillows,

All marking the dead.

 

I feel so ashamed,

For being so cruel,

Oh God please forgive me,

I am such a fool!

 

The thought of visiting,

Someone i did not know,

Meant nothing to me,

But some people below.

 

I expected to see,

Many men in their grave,

Laid out in one place,

The home of the brave.

 

Yet this graveyard was tiny,

The army looked so small,

Hidden from sight,

Within the stone wall.

 

Over 100 men lay,

In this still silent bed,

Each with a name,

Placed above his quiet head.

 

So young are the fallen,

Cut off from their family,

Died in this woodland,

For you and for me.

 

I read their names,

Look at their age,

Then sign from respect,

On the crisp ‘visitor’s’ page.

 

It’s so hard to believe,

So many fell here,

Until you walk with them,

When it all becomes clear.

 

I feel humbled by this sight,

But am horrified to see,

So many more clusters,

Laid in front of me.

 

The fields are scattered,

With young men who wait,

For their relatives to visit,

Walking through the green gate.

 

Some have been visited,

By family before,

While others all lay here,

Their legacies no more.

 

They each hold their post,

In this lush foreign land,

Protecting the future,

Just as it was planned.

 

By Becky Clemett – 7^th September 2008

His Day

 

He wears his new suit,

Red poppy pinned on the chest,

His shoes have been shined,

To make sure they look best.

 

Medals have been cleaned,

Then placed in the right place,

He looks in the mirror,

Pride wells in huis face.

 

Makes his way to the street,

Hundreds stand in the way,

He moves forward slowly,

For it’s his special day.

 

The cold grabs at his ankles,

Wraps around his frail legs,

His fingers feel icy,

Please warm up he begs.

 

He turns to his wife,

Hasn’t seen her at all,

She stands at his side,

So proud and so tall.

 

“When will he be here?”

Her voice quivers with tears,

“When the plane has moved on,

When the police escort clears”

 

Time seems to stand still now,

Her voice quivers with tears,

"When the plane has moved on,

When the police escort clears"

 

Suddenly it's his time,

The crowd are silent and still,

He's moving so slowly,

Their eyes start to fill.

 

His wife raises a photo,

Their son, as a small boy,

Opening her arms wide,

Her heart fills with joy.

 

 

"He's finally coming home"

She screams to the air,

Then hugs her own body,

For no - one is there.

 

They look through the window,

Coffin draped in the flag,

Pride rises in his throat,

Making him start to gag.

 

A small pause let's him see,

His reflection in the glass,

Tears streaming from his eyes,

As the hearse starts to pass.

 

He sees his son's medals,

Shining in the sun's light,

He feels some relief,

His son is home safe tonight.

 

He will always remember this,

Wear his medals with pride,

For he knows that his son,

Fought for freedom - and died.

 

#Wewillrememberthem

 

By Becky Clemett - 15^th November 2009