Lest we Forget…

A flower that has come to resemble the lost lives of the fallen hero’s of our nation, the weight this tiny & delicate flower has come to bear on its shoulders is imminence, Papaver or the common name it is known by is the poppy, has to carry’s the brunt of a nation in mourning, reflection and remembrance, & yet no matter which war we talk about, the subject invariably turns to the senseless loss of life… yet many more people at home, are touched by those loved ones left behind in a cold grave in foreign lands… in places with names no one could pronounce until a loved one stays behind with his comrades, left behind in body only, dying there for King or Queen, but his name lives on… in any bloody conflict those that fought the battles and survived, came home with the horrors of war imprinted on their minds forever to be with them, day and night, young and old, wounded or discharged they alike will still be fighting their own battles and demons for many years to come…

All i ask is that this year please like every year give what you can afford, and where the Poppy of Remembrance with pride…

Pictured: Flight Lieutenant Alan Forsdike, back row 2nd from left, with his crew, ground crew and a Halifax Bomber during the World War Two which saw him awarded for exemplary bravery

Everyone ought to take this time to thank those of all conflicts for their selfless acts and sacrifice, because today as the future generation we owe them so much, we are enjoying our freedom that was bestowed upon us by their actions …

Fred’s End Note…

In many times through out our history when boys grew up to be men…

For those that gave…

In Flanders Fields


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

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