A lifetime lived, and then some more
nearly a century of silence and then,
he remembered, recalled to mind,
the horrors of that heinous time

A gentle man, West Country born,
a tradesman who did work with pride.
A family man that honoured truth,
showed no regret for his lost youth.

He watched as slowly, one by one,
his band of brothers slipped behind
and scared that we’d forget the past,
decided he’d speak out at last.

Then history’s fallen, with his tongue,
rose from the trenches, tired and torn,
with hollow eyes that seemed to plead.
‘Listen to him. Remember me.’

Who will remind us now he’s gone?
A generation’s mouthpiece mourned.
The falling poppies will perhaps,
then we’ll remember Harry Patch.