While we forget

About us,

History moves forward

Propelled by so many,

Yet unknown,

Expecting the best.

Future knocks at the door

Of those ignoring

Who wrote it.

And thus lies

The action

Taciturn.

When I die,

Decorate my site

With the swords of

Saint George,

For the fight

I’ve waged.

This poem was published on the Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere Blog.