Stamford Remembrance Day and service brought people together
Stamford’s poignant Remembrance Day parade and service attracted well over a thousand people.
Headed by Stamford Brass, personnel from RAF Wittering and the British Army regiments based in Rutland marched from Star Lane to the war memorial in Broad Street, along with local cadets and members of the Stamford branch of the Royal British Legion (RBL).
Following the parade, a service of remembrance was led by The Rev Dr Peter Stevenson, who is the RBL branch chaplain.
The Last Post sounded before a two-minute silence was observed, broken only by the sound of a baby crying among the crowds of people who lined Broad Street and spilled into Ironmonger Street. Picking up on the sound of the baby’s cries, The Rev Stevenson afterwards spoke of how it could symbolise human reaction to war and conflict.
Mayor of Stamford Kelham Cooke gave an address from the balcony of Browne’s Hospital, where he was joined by MP Alicia Kearns, Air Vice Marshal Gary Waterfall the deputy Lord Lieutenant of Lincolnshire, as well as the station commander of RAF Wittering, town councillors, and representatives from the emergency services.
The Rev Neil Shaw, vicar of All Saints’ Church, read from the Gospel, and Stamford’s poet laureate Caroline Avnit recited, The 11th Hour, a poem she wrote for Remembrance Day.
The service concluded with the hymn I Vow to Thee My Country and the national anthem.
The 11th Hour by Caroline Avnit
Oh world of gunfire and plumes of smoke,
young men called to a bitter end,
breathing in gas, scarred lungs would choke
the only hope, quick death with peace, could mend.
Sallow faces torn apart by acid and trench
as time slips past the last hour of your life
herded like cattle, cold, with death as the stench
that clings to your skin with toil and strife.
Lungs burn in brutal pain, all breath lost,
I lay the wreath upon your grave,
the brevity of human life, the cost
and consider all the boys we could not save.
An hourglass with all the sand run out,
a wilted poppy, its hour in the sun too brief,
now torn with petals flown about
last moments soldier, stolen by death, the thief.
We are mere dust scattered by the wind,
leftover ashes from the dregs of war,
as prayers are uttered by those who sinned
for bloodied bodies left to die upon the shore.
For forgiveness comes by the Father’s grace,
no longer looking back, but forward still,
no grave, no home, nor resting place
can comfort broken hearts and battered will.
Our life’s fabric, peeled away like burnt skin
- we take it not with us, no coin, cloth or hem,
yet as each day ends and the next may begin,
with heartfelt zeal, we exclaim ‘we will remember them’.
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