Poem to the people of Wootton Bassett

People can surprise you, in their ordinary way,
They’re not the sort our rulers ask to tea
But sometimes they identify a negligence or need
That our leaders seem too occupied to see.

Like the folk of Wootton Bassett – in that little Wiltshire town
Where the hearses of the fallen trundle through,
They decided duty’s martyrs who had served their country’s cause
Should be treated with the honour they were due.

For a few attentive minutes, all the bustle and the haste
Would pause, allowing people to reflect
On the poignant truth of sacrifice, the passing of a life
And the small consideration of respect.

They didn’t seek to justify the cause for which they fell
Or glorify the reasons they were there,
Compassion was the spur behind the rows of bowing heads
And the flags that fluttered limply in the air.

Just ordinary people, some who’d seen it all before
With shadows, still, of suffering and smoke
And some restrained by adult hands who wondered why it was
That Grandpa’s voice should tremble when he spoke.

No military orders will have mustered this parade,
These are townsfolk with a mission of their own,
Expressing by their actions to the grieving and the lost
There are strangers who’ll ensure they’re not alone.

One town, one group of people, they can hardly change the world
Yet their gesture speaks for countless of their kind,
For that commonplace majority whose voice is rarely heard
And whose qualities are rarely underlined.

If the powers-that-be would listen, how much wiser they’d become,
How much closer to the populace they serve,
They could gain a new perception, treat the tawdry with contempt
And real heroes with the honour they deserve.

They should learn from Wootton Bassett that it’s what the people want,
It’s not politics with a means towards an end,
It’s a filial humanity, a bonding of the blood
By which each fallen stranger is a friend