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In the quiet hours of a Sunday morning,

With the workweek safely settled,

You showed me Figaro’s slow march,

Across a cold kitchen floor,

And told stories,

Of blanco and bulling and the Second Battalion,

About peeling potatoes at Pirbright,

In the twilight of the war.

Then, one grey and distant day,

You ceased to hold the line,

But never retreated.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

25 February 2024