Fourteen Hundred Hours

Fourteen Hundred Hours

(Words and music by and © Talis Kimberley, 2009)

I reckon I parked in the last empty space
The High Street was already full.
The media circus was well under way
With their cameras and tripods and all;
And there’s Mister Collier whom everyone knows
In his coat and his fine feathered hat
It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.
I regret that I’m certain of that.

And somebody’s wearing a poppy,
That most symbolic of flowers;
And how the silence spreads
When they’re bringing them home
At fourteen hundred hours

(Marshall’s, the Bakery. G Rouse, hardware.
Crump and Son, Butcher…)

Well, the veterans’ motorbike club’s out in force
And their stories should also be sung;
But it’s soldiers in uniform all down the road
And dear gods but they look so very young
It’s good-natured chatter and stranger-well-met
In this Wiltshire market town –
And the locals and visitors stand side by side
As the shops and cafes close down, close down;

And somebody’s wearing a poppy,
That most symbolic of flowers;
Now the silence spreads;
They’re bringing them home.
It’s fourteen hundred hours.