Sunday, 11 am the autumn sun reflects on the medals of the 10000 representatives of lost souls on foreign lands and in the British Isles thousands more in local towns parade with pride. The ribbons from far of fields bore the medals given for lives and lost limbs.

The thousands waited patiently for the elected and unelected together with the world's representatives took centre stage.

The pomp once over left the streets to the vast majestic gathered parade of survivors the widows the children and their grandchildren. The massed bands stirred the ranks of the deep unconscious with tunes and songs of 60 yrs. ago. The steps were paced by the right by the beat by the memory.

The representatives were headed by the Black Watch they set the pace that marched across the sands of time across the fields of death and wounded, across the fields of grief of lost pals mates wives sons and daughters. The memories of seared tears of guilt why me alive and them dead the crystal clear images bleared only by tears, some of pride and some of happy times and some of why the loss?

The paraded medals worn with the brief return of discipline, marched with a swagger in the name of the Regiment, the Ship, the Squadron.

Those who were not selected to march lined deep the sides of the columns the colours the badges the swelled pride greeted those who marched in ringing applause and yells of recognition.

To mention one Regiment is surely wrong but the sight of the proud Ghurkhas who demonstrated on the streets of Liverpool for recognition by this Government marched tall in knowing that the Liverpool imprimatur had worked for them. The rear guard was from the youth who like father like grandfather they walked tall, they hope and prayed for Peace

What Is Peace

Who am I who is not in peace?
It does not matter, but once it did, it mattered to those who had time to love,
Now there is only time to hate

Where am I where there is no peace?
I exist in streets once shared by people of all
different religions creeds and politics.
I exist in cities once proud in unity now bitter in divide
In labour refugee and internment camps I am their prisoner
I lived in houses of splendid happiness next to people of freedom
Now their houses are boarded and pock marked by the disease of bigotry

My children mirror my image yet I am blind to this

Who are my children will they have peace?
They are those with hatred in their eyes
No fear in their in their minds, they command the street corners
And seek their future violent lives in early adolescence

Where are my schools do they teach peace?
They are behind divided lines teaching dividing thoughts
Inculcating, deserting the history of learned men

Where are my elders have they known peace?
They are crying with no tears now shed after years
All spent in constant prayers for the dead
No aspirations shine in their eyes for their seared children
Only a pathetic hope that tomorrow will bring relief
What is peace I do not know?
I only know what peace is not
Peace is not in my children's eyes and hearts when riots start-Yet
Hope dances brilliantly when they play in peace

Peace is not in the terrorist's bomb
Peace is not in a vendetta or a senseless retaliatory killing

Peace is not in psuedo exiles fattening on another land
Never having lived in their own spitting invective on peace makers
For peace to the exile means they are revealed naked disloyal to both

Peace is whole and cannot be separated by walls
Peace is in the group's intentions
Peace is desired not decreed
Peace is only for those who seek it
Peace is not in words it is in acts for peace

Peace is in the free press free from bias and government censure
Peace is not in the power seeker
Nor in the right of colour or creed it is free to all

Alone I do not exist reach out to me
Transcend the bigot the prejudiced the evil that is theirs
Peace of mind in the love of unity within and without