I am caught quickly by the tone. There are many people gathered on this lovely evening of warmth watching as the red jackets of Sherborne perform.
But so too on these perspectives I question what may be too much of “more of the same”.
I sit within the Temple and write. Fountain pen in hand, pencil nearby for sketching.
Our tranquil space, our weirwood thoughts, of flowers and fallen autumn leaves, the change to our season – time treading its course.
…we head south-east and arrive at Dickebusch. It is not unnoticed that as we arrive the church bells ring eleven times.
At least 1,415 of Hood’s complement became memories to friends and families. Their voices lost…their stories remembered.
The droplets as if heavy tears from the sky. Peace here but not so much in this entire world we know as home. The wind not gentle in its breath but manageable, I stand by familiar tree…
In anticipation of this Remembrance day, I prepare to find my place and take witness of today’s gathering. Those here are younger ones now and those I once knew have found shelters away from this earthly domain.
In my soft eyed way my eyes close as the black beret of a Desert Rat returns…the aged sailor whose cap of the Atlantic, like him, is no longer with us and the elder swagger of the pilot whose awards danced swing mounted from his chest. Many I knew to speak to…to share, sometimes once a year, sometimes often…