I pray tonight for Ivan Wilcox
Buried in a corner of France.
He never got to see his son grow.
I pray for his son, Frank. Who like his father, fought for this country. I was privileged to call him my Grand.
And my Gram, Iris, who sewed wings on planes, vulgar air frames, to carry a jet engine that would help us win the war.
For all of my relatives who helped build and defend this realm, there are YOUR Grandparents, too; Gramps, Nans, Grannies, Pops, Grandpas, Grandads, Grandmas and Grandads.
They left us a precious gift
These fields. This land. This belief. This country.
Ours.
And we shall defend it still.