I have a thing about war memorials.
They for me represent more than just the physical sculpture, more than just names, of wars gone by and the dead. They represent an emotion, feelings – more than the expected remembrance but a realisation of consequence, of respecting the individual more than the outcome or the event.
Each memorial differs just slightly in specific location, in site, in design. Celtic crosses are beloved, as are the simple cross on hexagonal base. Granite and marble, sandstone or glass. They are often worth a study or simple assessment.
You would have to imagine the vicar or priest, the archbishop or dignitary, the MP or relatives of the departed gathered around in a smaller or lesser throng of committed local citizens when it was put in situ. And then to perceive of the many years of coming and going, of wreaths, flowers, a passing nod, a removal of cap or a falling tear.
Across the land in city or in high peaks, these monuments of recognition stand year on year.
A lesson in admiration for me; in commitment, in durability in time.
An acknowledgement by the living for the dead, and a enduring reminder for the living by the dead.
You returned; I did not.