I'm sure most people reading this are aware that today was Remembrance Sunday, that day in the year when Cenotaphs up and down the country are dressed with poppy wreaths.

I know some people have mixed feelings about the whole thing, and for many reasons, and I respect that.

But I also want to blog briefly here about why I think it's important that we remember not only the fallen, but those who come back with shattered lives.

When I was young it wasn't uncommon to see young men out in the streets, shaking, shivering, sometimes yelling at nothing, and people would shake their heads and say 'That's poor Bob (or whoever). He was gassed.' These men didn't die, their names have never - will never - grace any memorial, and yet their lives were shattered just the same.

There was a woman whose husband had been horribly wounded in the War. Every day, with no help, she had to dress his wounds, rebandage them, cope with his shattered mental state and wonder where her handsome young husband had gone. One day, I was out with my aunt when we saw her running across the fields.
'That's odd,' said my aunt, 'I've never seen Mrs Jones out without her hat before. I wonder where she's going?'
We found out a few days later. She'd run to the river and drowned herself. You won't find her on any memorial either, but she was a casualty of war just the same.

And then there was my uncle, who came home on leave and went for a picnic, only to be threatened by the landowner with a shotgun, and told to 'Get off my land.'
'Your land?' demanded my uncle, 'Why am I the one fighting for it then?'

But the final word should probably go to Mr Penry's uncle, a professional soldier, horribly wounded in the Great War to End All Wars. When he found his local pub full of people who'd managed to avoid conscription, he lobbed a dud hand grenade in through the door.
'That'll make the buggers move,' he told them.

Came across a wonderful Remembrance Day parade today up in Hay on Wye. It lasted several hours, (in such a small town) and involved bands, banners, a church choir and just about the entire community marching in procession.

It was quite something to see and perhaps a good and timely reminder for Health and Safety obsessives that these things can be done without the need for ridiculous risk assessments or swingeing restrictions.

Armistice day today, and a sombre day in an always sombre month. In many cultures across the world, November is the time when we commemorate the dead, particularly our own family members.

This is a poem I did a few years back on the subject….

Dark Mornings in November

Mist like gunpowder, a heavy quilt
Of still remembered spark and spray,
Where all shone gold on Bonfire night
Now’s damp and cold and shades of grey.
For Samhain marked the ancient close
Of summer’s blossom, sunshine’s rose,
All Souls remembered in a prayer
Whispered in darkness, mourned with care.

Yet though remembering all things lost:
Dead sun, lost loves, close kith and kin,
They are not gone, there is no death
While memory lingers on within.
And still hearts beat and tears yet fall,
While eyes grow dim and hope grows small.
But nothing’s ever really lost
While steadfast loves remember,
And still rejoice in the recall of a voice
And dark mornings in November.