Remembrance Sunday

The dogs are here
We come each year to the War Memorial
Wearing our poppies.
“Their forebears served in the trences”
I say, several times, very loudly.
I do wish they’d stand still and look gallant
Instead of scrubbling for crumbs and chewing gum stuck to the pavement
They peer around hoping to spot a chum
They do love a crowd
But when the bugle sounds
We are silent
And I, a wartime child, remembering the Dead
Bend over their heads
To bury my grief in their dancing eyes.