We have received the following poem, written by the Cowden, Hartfield & District Standard Bearer, James Castle, who carried their Branch Standard at the state funeral of HRH Queen Elizabeth ll;
The Silence
The drum beats, the hearts stop,
Our Queen is dead.
Eighty-four Standards to represent them all,
Those that went before, represented by so few.
Hearts jump, the column marches,
Whitehall echoes,
The Abbey beckons,
The world has gathered.
The congregation within in hushed tones,
Outside the crowds have gathered.
Standing patiently there is no crush,
Moist eyes glisten alongside shining medals.
The Cenotaph stands, proud and tall,
The sun shines brightly on the Portland stone.
The Standards are gathered,
Brass and leather gleaming with honour.
Three rows deep, proud and erect,
The statuesque figures are frozen in time.
Bolt upright, eyes front,
Their bright white gauntlets stand out against sombre black.
The whispers of the crowd mingle,
Distant commands echo off the stone.
Backs stiffen while Big Ben tolls,
The service draws to a close.
The tension builds.
The steady beat of the black draped drum,
Tolls like the slow beat of our hearts.
A crescendo of emotion swells down the ranks.
Old soldiers stiffen in anticipation,
Proud and erect they wait for The Boss.
Overlapping commands of Parade Marshals
Caught between the beating drum.
Echoes and chaos as they approach,
But all in step with the beating drum.
Muscles aching, arms, feet, necks, and eyes,
Standards stand tall, steady, and still.
The marching band fades,
But the drum still beats.
Heralds approach,
Tabards emblazoned with Royal Standard.
The quiet intensifies,
Footsteps are heard.
Hearts of Oak guide their Queen,
Forty more hold her steady.
With a single command,
The Standards begin their silent salute.
A simultaneous wave of gold and blue,
Laying a carpet before their Monarch.
Heads are bowed in precision,
Eyes averted in respect.
A flourish of colour,
A silent tribute.
Muffled footsteps mimic the drum,
The wheels of the gun carriage turn silently.
Seven score Matelots guide their Monarch,
Her final voyage through a sea of sorrow.
The silence broken by the clink of spurs,
Gentle, rhythmic, barely audible.
Gentlemen at Arms, white swan feathers,
A mute testament to their Queen.
Yeoman of the Guard, Grenadiers,
The Royal Company of Archers,
All protect their Queen.
A final Bodyguard on her final day.
Flowers from her own garden lay upon her,
Myrtle, oak, heather, and rosemary,
Alongside the Crown, Orb and Sceptre.
‘In Loving and Devoted Memory’
Heads remain bowed, nothing is seen,
The King and his family follow behind,
Saluting the stone, the Standards stay down.
Respect and homage are reflected each way.
The loyal have passed.
Commonwealth, near and far.
Service and volunteer, all have served,
To pay homage on this day.
James Castle
Cowden, Hartfield and District Branch
