Remembrance
They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
Fewer every year, the old
soldiers are marching again.
Flat cap, tweed hat, thin white hair
and bald scalp nod and bob down
to the war memorial;
feet shuffle to keep in time.
All are bent or compacted
by the weight of fifty years’
guilt at being survivors
and by their failure to live
lives that could accommodate
the ghosts of friends and brothers.
Years have condemned the living
to frailty, forgetfulness,
the vulnerability
of infants who have to be
protected from excitement
by the kindness of women.
Age has wearied the old men
who are glad to have this day
of importance. Memory
is clearest of those years. Shock
and loss come back, and the sharp
vividness of being young.
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