I'm growing old, but as a young man, you died.
Each November the eleventh, I wear a poppy, with pride.
For I can still see the moon, golden sunshine and showers.
Whilst you never survived, to spend precious hours.
Future plans were denied you, didn't see your children play.
You never woke to their giggles, at the break of each day.
See them jump on a swing, blow bubbles in the air - or do all the mad things that only kids dare!
You missed all the trials of seeing them grow, the excitement of Christmas - their first pantomime show.
Opening small presents, with joy in their eyes.
Unaware of their mother, softly stifling her cries.
She wept for her soldier, who didn't return, that pain in her heart would continually burn.
A wedding ring to cherish, a photo or two.
She kept his memory, for her children, it's all she could do.
So when I look back at my life, the good and the bad.
I'm thankful I survived, though sometimes feel sad.
For a hundred years have pased, since your great sacrifice.
But we still have not learned, how precious is LIFE.
Ann Wilson November 3rd 2018.
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