Poppies at the Tower …
There was a quiet revolution in London last week when the age profile slid from the young to the over ‘50s as they flocked to the Tower of London to see the memorial for those who died in the First World War. Ceramic poppies filled the moat of the Norman fortress that sits proudly beside the ebbing and flowing Thames.
Half-term had been a time for families to visit, with colour, noise, laughter and the tears of over-tired children. This week, all this was replaced with grey and white. The older generation, from across the country, stood in orderly lines waiting patiently to see a sight that they understood in a deeper way. For most of them had a connection, however slight, with people who had lived during the next world war – as if the first had not been enough.
It was fun to see this army of grey-haired people taking photographs with a range of cameras from archaic to the most up to date i-pads and smartphones. To see these people, each wearing their own poppy with just a little more pride, was almost as impressive as the memorial.
As they waited, thoughtfulness was the order of the day: stepping aside so others got a better view; apologising for being in the way; moving so someone can get a good photo; helping those in wheelchairs and with walking sticks get through the crowds. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if every one of those people took the rubbish from their picnic lunch home with them.
Part of this flip back in time was the jolly policemen joking with the crowds … you could almost hear the bells on the little blue police cars instead of wailing sirens speeding past. A jolt came when three armed patrolmen carrying submachine guns joined the crowd. The look, first of recognition, and then shock, and in some cases horror, passed over virtually everyone’s face as they shuffled past. Perhaps it’s reassuring that people can still be surprised by the sight of weapons on the city’s streets. Perhaps, also, when you have come to honour the dead you do not want to see reminders of what causes death. But for all their gear, armour and communications equipment you had to chuckle at seeing the sticky tape used to keep the aerial in place.
A lunch stop in a nearby coffee shop saw another interesting juxtaposition. A place normally full of bustling young office workers had been taken over by a group who were a little out of their comfort zone in this fast moving self-service place but were not going to roll over and give up on “progress”. In the middle of this ocean of seniors sat two young men in overly smart suits. These two couldn’t have looked more out of place if they’d been mafia bosses having a “sit-down” in a National Trust cafe.
Earlier in the day Tower Bridge was raised to let a ship through. For a few minutes attention was switched and there was child-like excitement at seeing this unusual sight.
The sun sets on the blood red poppies, the names of the dead are read and the Last Post sounds. The full moon is just beginning to rise over the Tower. Thousands of elderly people have stayed and stood for hours just for this moment. What more moving tribute could there be for those who lost their lives?
