Gordon
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This morning I set out on my bike for an isolated war memorial at a crossroads between the villages of Sand Hutton and Claxton near York, aiming to arrive at 1100hrs, which thanks to a brisk following wind I did. I had the place to myself, though someone had been before me to lay fresh poppies and a written list of the twelve men commemorated there. Slightly out of context the words of Philip Larkin's poem came to mind:
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
Gordon
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