The Remembrance Sunday this year was very different from the usual service with strict social distancing being observed in the All Hallows churchyard. A good number of people attended the outdoor service and the prayers were read by The Reverend David Messer. Once again the silhouettes were standing, heads bowed, around the church as Steve Dowler read the names of the men from Walkington who had died in all wars. The Last Post and the National Anthem were played brilliantly on the bugle by a village resident whose name I do not know.
The day itself was a typical autumn day, mild and still with a full carpet of fallen leaves and with a thin mist adding a sombre air to the area around the War Memorial.
The poem written by the Poet Laureate to honour the unknown soldier in Westminster Abbey.
The Bed by Simon Armitage:
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.
without name or rank or age or home, because you
are the son we lost, and your rest is ours.