Jennifer Brock

He Is My Son

You are the living, you are the dead,
It is these words he has often read.
'In Flander's Field the poppys grow
between the crosses row on row.'

He trusts in the Lord, for he is only eleven,
Believing for everything there is a purpose under heaven.
He was the future you could only dream,
In his reflection you see just how much you mean.

His eyes are young and his heart not wise,
But being grateful does not require size.
You served fellow man, this country, our great land,
and today he stands to offer you his small hand.

His hand he reaches to you with admiration, thanks and praise,
For his freedom, his chance to dream and the flag he proudly waves.
For all that you did, you saw and knew,
Your courage and honour were steadfast and true.

He is my son, a soldier's heart has he,
Only God really knows what is and what is yet to be.
Quietly confident, forever touched and in your debt,
He is my son, and I promise you he never will forget.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 10, 2008
Poem Edited: Thursday, April 10, 2008

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