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There were soo many poppies and crosses on the front lawn of Westminster Abbey last weekend.  Battles fought, heroes made, lives lost.

I found the remembrance station for the Commonwealth fallen soldiers.  There were few poppies or crosses in this station.  Then I saw ‘St. Kitts and Nevis Legion’.  It came home that war-heroes-memorials were not unnecessary, unfathomable nor unvisited.  My own countrymen gave their lives for something and the green-painted rusty WWII gun which I played with whenever I went to my town’s square was more than a toy.

I then went to the poppies table, no longer seeing brisk business as it was now late evening, which offered poppies and crosses for a donation.   Then with three bangs of the black mallet I planted a cross and thought of the bangs which may have taken the women’s lives and the bangs that came from the green rusty gun now in my island’s town square.

I came away having connected a childhood memory to what had appeared as a British pomp and ceremony poppyfest to something deeper (and also with a blue and red poppies wrist band).

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