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A poem by Jim Chambers

It stands. A solid reminder of a time.

When young men felt the pull of Empire and Country,

to serve in places far away.

The Great War it was called.

Volunteers all, they went,

some never to return.


It stands. On a hill.

Between fields of cane and river,

placed by a grateful community,

witness to fierce pride that

they did their bit and

we give thanks.


It stands. And mute,

Reminds all that fifteen went.

Five remained at Villers, Northhamption or Fromelle.

And we try to imaging what the others brought home

(because they seldom tell)

and we ask what was it worth?


It stands. And we know in later wars,

Young men and women felt the call and left

for service in air, ocean and field,

and for some, closer to home when the bombs came.

This time so many more and even more to grieve for.

And we wonder again.


It stands,

solid against time.

Now all sides bear witness to our wider debt to those who served.

A tiny cross to denote yet another not returned

And we note the names oft repeated,

of a family all too often touched.


It stands.

We see it as we pass.

And give thanks for those bringing flowers

And their thoughts.

Erected in grief and tears, it stands

And remembered in our pride.

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