Chris

Surrounded by the glitz and frippery the ribbons, bells and stars all meant to warm you, on the mantelpiece, parading with the cards the one that silently ' regrets to inform you'. Muffled merriment, jaded joy from those who gently tiptoe round your loss, they turn their heads to gaze up at the tree as you turn yours to gaze down at the cross. How many times a century ago was this scene playing out from street to street, as far away in muddied bloodied fields the unknown sank beneath their comrade's feet? You walked those trenches, too, not long ago, at Ypres bowed our heads for the last post, stood speechless at Tyne Cot in rows of stone, raised a glass to those that fell and drank a toast. Then only yesterday the word came through you'd lost a bitter battle of your own, this time the only casualty was you, and so I raise this glass to you alone. Sleep well, my friend