Sadly, our country went into lockdown again this week, which means that all the usual Remembrance Day commemorations had to be restricted or cancelled, leaving many of us baffled. The government's scientific advisors have been accused of scaremongering this week too. You do the maths. Some good news though; the megalomaniac that is Donald Trump has been defeated. But I doubt he'll go quietly.
We've had some beautiful autumnal walks this week. Living in Barrow means there is no need to drive to enjoy countryside, woodland and seaside- we are so lucky.
A poignant first anniversary for me. A year since I left teaching. I've learnt so much about myself in that year. That I'll always be a teacher at heart. That when your gut instinct is telling you something, you HAVE to listen. And who my friends really are. Only a select group of people know what actually happened this time last year, that the truth wasn't what it appeared to be. And to the people who wanted me gone- thanks. I'd never have done it without you! Enough said.
Three weddings had to be cancelled for this November. But the Steve Hillman camera was not downhearted (we don't do that)- it's reinvented itself as a wildlife camera!
Good, hey!
Been looking at poetry this week on my course- all by Zoom or Teams of course! Here's the full version of For the Fallen by Robert Laurence Binyon. Interspersed with photos from previous Barrow Remembrance commemorations.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Let's stick together folks- we only get one shot at this!
