Street March #2

After yesterday’s protest march, this afternoon saw the annual Remembrance Day parade down the High Street, led by our friend and fellow Yeovil away-day supporter, Steve, in his role as leader of the local marching band.

We timed our walk with Chris well, arriving back in the High Street in time to catch the parade.

A bit of tidying in the garden this morning.

Here’s The poem our Poet Laureate, Simon Armitage, wrote to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the burial of The Unknown Soldier in his grave at Westminster Abbey:

The Bed

Sharp winds scissor and scythe those plains.
And because you are broken and sleeping rough
in a dirt grave, we exchange the crude wooden cross 
for the hilt and blade of a proven sword;
to hack through the knotted dark of the next world, 
yes, but to lean on as well at a stile or gate
looking out over fens or wealds or fells or wolds. That sword, drawn from a king’s sheath,
fits a commoner’s hand, and is yours to keep.

And because frost plucks at the threads
of your nerves, and your bones stew in the rain, bedclothes of zinc and oak are trimmed
and tailored to fit. Sandbags are drafted in,
for bolstering limbs and pillowing dreams,
and we throw in a fistful of battlefield soil:
an inch of the earth, your share of the spoils.

The heavy sheet of stone is Belgian marble 
buffed to a high black gloss, the blanket
a flag that served as an altar cloth. Darkness
files past, through until morning, its head bowed. Molten bullets embroider incised words.
Among drowsing poets and dozing saints 
the tall white candles are vigilant sentries presenting arms with stiff yellow flames; 
so nobody treads on the counterpane,
but tiptoeing royal brides in satin slippers
will dress and crown you with luminous flowers.

All this for a soul without name or rank or age or home, 
because you are the son we lost, and your rest is ours. 

Simon Armitage