Passels of plastic chairs half filled with empty souls, where gaps grow yearly replaced by psalm books, or council representatives made to wear poppies, And annual expressions of sorrow. Old faces blow through brass and bugle. Breaths become ‘Amazing Grace’. Hands fold. Heads bow and old mouths wobble at the walls of names which each had a face. Now they are carved in concrete, and pallid cenotaphs of wrinkles remembered by those who sit or stand, The fallen rise through these men. Shining for a moment as tears in their eyes before they fall again.