Through the thronged streets.
Applause rippled in waves
As they strode along
High St, Road and Avenue,
Remembering other roads
As familiar now as these.
Wishtan, Nad e Ali Musa Qul’ah
In whose parched soil,
Strands of daisy chains
Lay buried under the dirt
To trip the unwary walker.
Where the sniper, hid,
With the farmer in the field
And best mess dress
Meant Kevlar and Osprey.
They marched to show their respects
To honour friendships
Grown as mists, solid as iron.
To remember others of their breed,
Lying peacefully in satin lined oak,
Or in hospital induced comas.
Dreaming Technicolor dreams
Of crawling through dank ditches
On bloodied knees.
Only to wake, as
Jigsaw men, crafted
From muscle and bone and sinew.
Or as Meccano men, riveted
From nut and bolt and steel.
They marched to show their respects
Not as heroes, but ordinary men
Who had chosen a life of adventure
And never bemoaned their fate.
Sons and husbands and fathers,
Writing their own histories.
Soldiers at eighteen
Veterans at twenty two.
– Eleanor Broeders –
The Village Market 
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