Most of the Remembrance parades will not take place until Sunday, so the fallen are still very much on our minds. I found an old book of poetry in a junk shop when I was about fourteen. I can remember tears running down my face when I read one particular poem. It made a huge impression on me and there is never now a Remembrance Day when this poem does not spring to my mind.
I have never come across it in any other poetry book. I wanted to share it with you because it is unlike any other "war" poem that I have ever read. If you are as sensitive as I am, then have a tissue handy.
TO A BULLDOG 
We shan't see Willy any more, Mamie,
He won't be coming any more:
He came back once and again and again,
But he won't get leave any more.
We looked from the window and there was his cab,
And we ran downstairs like a streak,
And he said, "Hello, you bad dog," and you
crouched to the floor,
Paralysed to hear him speak.
And then let fly at his face and his chest
Till I had to hold you down,
While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat
And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.
We went upstairs to the studio,
The three of us, just as of old,
And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
As round the room he strolled.
Here in this room where, years ago
Before the old life stopped,
He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe,
He would pick up the threads he'd dropped.
Fondling all the drawings he had left behind,
Glad to find them all still the same,
And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings
.........Every time he came.
But now I know what a dog doesn't know,
Though you'll trust your head on my knee,
And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness
That you find so dull in me.
And all your life you will never know
What I wouldn't tell you even if I could,
That the last time we waved him away
Willy went for good.
But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug
Sleeping in the warmth of the stove,
Even through your muddled old canine brain
Shapes from the past may rove.
You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream,
How we brought hom a silly little pup,
With a big square head and little crooked legs
That could scarcely bear him up;
But your tail will tap at the memory
Of a man whose friend you were,
Who was always kind, though he called you a naughty dog
When he found you on his chair;
Who'd made you face a reproving finger
And solemnly lecture you
Till your head hung downwards and you look very sheepish!
And you'll dream of your triumphs too,
Of summer evening chases in the garden
When you dodged us all about with a bone;
We were three boys, and you were the cleverest:
But now we're two alone.
When summer comes again,
And the long sunsets fade,
We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two
That since the war we've played.
And though you run expectant as you always do
To the uniforms we meet,
You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers
In even the longest street,
Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought
Even now were the old words said,
If I tried the old trick and said "Where's Willy?"
You would quiver and lift your head,
And your brown eyes would look to ask if I were serious,
And wait for the word to spring,
Sleep undisturbed: I shan't say that again,
You innocent old thing.
I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa,
While you lie asleep on the floor;
For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of,
And he won't be coming here any more.
This poem was written for Capt. W.H.Squire, (Acting Major), R.F.A; killed April 12th, 1917 . The author was his brother ~ J.C. Squire
