Sunday, 11 November 2012
A beautiful autumn Sunday in the Highlands, where the leaves have not yet fallen from the trees, and the heather is still in bloom, as are the last roses in the garden. To Logie Coldstone for a Remembrance Sunday service, where there were soldiers from the Second World War, alongside several returning from Afghanistan. Very humbling... and then so touching to hear the silence broken by the sound of the bagpipes, playing a lament entitled Flowers of the Forest.
Yesterday, we were talking about the whys and wherefores of poppies growing in a wild flower meadow at Tillypronie, and the mystery of how they seed in some places, but not others. All of which has reminded me to re-read John McCrae's famous poem, In Flanders Fields, written in May 1915.
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...