those are poppies...the building they’re “spilling” from is the Imperial War Museum in London
DOTDOTwhen I woke up this morning, I heard a disturbing sound...

06:00 hours may have been oh-my-god-it’s-early time in Goodmorning Vietnam’s war...but it’s 11:00 GMT when New York is looking for coffee & bagels.

& 11:00 on the 11th Day of the 11th month is, by tradition of many years standing, two minutes of dead air in the home of that meridian.


In Remembrance.

But in Britain they call the nearest Sunday Remembrance Sunday. Which would make that today.

By the time this goes up I may or may not have found time to sing the praises of Wilfred Owen &/or Seigfreid Sassoon so I won’t do that here...I will say it’s hard to count that particular cost. In that war & in any other, really. Although neither of the “world” ones was “any other” anything.

But in a vaguely similar way to the unseen bits of the iceberg there’s more verses than the one most often thought of as the poem of the hour...

a lot of folks are no more familiar with the first/next bit than I am with the pictured location...

For The Fallen
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.

pretty sure that’s the fountain/roundabout outside Buck House itself at the top of The Mall...

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.

The Cenotaph...where at least that one verse above the image will be it shall be in a great many places.

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.

all together all those poppies filled the old moat at the Tower of London - & were at least representative at some ratio to the number of dead who fell in the First World War...the installation was timed to coincide with the 100th anniversary of The [first] War...

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