On the eleventh hour of the day,
When silent, solemn people pray,
A brazen standard slowly raised,
And every passing thought it fazed.

A bugle holds its notes depressed,
It grips the grief within its breast,
Awakening from a quiet sleep,
The mournful memories that we keep.

The Last Post call begins to climb,
Above the march of wounded time,
A rising sound, so clear and high,
A final poignant, last goodbye.

It is the soldier’s evening bell,
That duties over, all is well.
The mind recalls a distant sound,
Of footprints lost on foreign ground.

A memory stirs, the lists we keep,
Of Grandfathers who did live…or sleep.
They bore the shield, they saw the cost,
the battle won, the loved ones lost.

The shell did burst, the flash of white…
Such darkness born within the light.
The shrapnel’s kiss upon the brow…
A battle fought, still fighting now.

Though home he stood, a heavy toll,
A silence broken in his soul.
This memory allowed no full release,
of one who gave his mind for peace.

The crimson poppies newly laid,
The costly heavy debt that’s paid.
The world hold still for one brief space,
with sorrow etched on every face.

In two small minutes, fast and slow,
the deepest truths of war come through.
And when the final note ascends,
The price was paid for me and you.