Poppy Wreaths Are Laid

I left to serve with happy heart,

no thoughts of death or fear,

I even smiled and thought to tease, my Mother’s silent tear.


“Don’t worry Mother, dry your eyes and wish me all your best.

For Kaiser Bill will scamper quick, when Pals he tries to test.

We’ll sweep him up and throw him out of Flanders bonny fields.

For God is with the righteous; his glory as our shields.

I’ll be right back afore you know, your tears will hardly fall,

So see me off, with one more hug, for I answer duty’s call.”


A warm farewell from cheering crowds and bands of fife and drum.

So soon to France and trenches, and cold that made me numb.

With whizzbang shells and sniper fire,

my happiness soon ebbed.

For nothing saps your spirits,

like rats gnawing on the dead.


The winter turned to mud and snow,

some died from it alone.

No silent night this Christmas,

the war had changed its tone.

No honour left ‘tween Fritz and us,

no truce to play a game.

Our only goal, to kill them all,

for they’re the ones to blame.nworth


Then the push to end it, how true that was for me.

I got twelve yards with stumbled steps and didn’t even see,

the bullets cutting like a swathe,

my guts all ripped to hell.

No pain, no sound, no screaming cries,

no tolling of a bell.



My face in mud, my breath all gone,

a darkness then a light.

I know I’m dead, yet am back home,

my Mother in my sight.

Her tears are falling hard and fast,

a bugle call is played.

A silence falls around the town.

Then poppy wreaths are laid.

WA War Memorial

My perch on high, unbounded force,

affords a spirit’s view.

I think some years have flown past,

I’m sure it is a few.

No more my pals who made it home,

seem to gather here.

Remembrance Day Crosses


No more can I see Mother,

no more her silent tear.

Yet now some others march instead.

Old men who were not born,

when I went forward into death,

my young life ripped and torn.

Kings Park eternal flame

And though no wreath that’s laid this day, restores my life to me,

Each allows my soul to rest, held safe in memory.


By Ian Andrew,
taken from The Little Book of Silly Rhymes & Odd Verses
Flanders Image © IMW
All other imagery © Ian Andrew


Launch Day – Flight Path

After months of writing, months and months of editing, selecting cover art and generally getting all the rest that goes with launching a new book into place, and a last few days of checking and double checking… Flight Path will be released tomorrow as an e-book on Amazon:


If, on the other hand, you like a paperback to hold and hug, then that format is released (again on Amazon, or any other on-line retailer) on the same day. Or… go into your local book shop this weekend and and ask them to order it for you. 🙂

If you are interested in attending an official Launch (and book signing) then you can have a look at the list of UK and Aussie venues here: https://www.facebook.com/viewsfromtheridge/events

If you want to know what it’s all about… Here’s the cover, the back blurb and the first few pages…

Flight Path FINAL CreateSpace

Flight Path - Back Cover Feb16 V5














Stowmarket, Suffolk.

As dawn broke on his thirty-third birthday, paratrooper Darren Caistor stormed up Wireless Ridge on East Falkland. It was the last of the three battles he fought on those far-away islands and when the soft glow of the South Atlantic sun revealed the carnage, he had barely managed to stifle his tears. He always said it was his toughest birthday. He was wrong.

His wife’s head leant on his shoulder, her chest heaving in quiet misery. The soft sobs of his daughter and son-in-law echoed off the sterile walls, muffling the gentle sounds of the nurses as they moved around the bed.

Through blurry eyes Darren watched shadowed shapes gliding across his vision. He knew, in a detached way, that the room was almost silent, yet his head was filled with a screaming rage. A roar of blood, thoughts, frustrations and a desperate desire for revenge thundered inside him. As a nurse moved past the window, the curtains swayed and the briefest of glints from the rising sun shone through. It caught the swirling dust motes, twisting them in a soft-yellow lance of light that flashed across the length of the room, like a heavenly sceptre. Its point came to rest on her soft face.

The sudden light cast a warming glow, gentle and reviving, but her eyes remained closed, her heart still. The curtain swayed back into place and the light was gone. Its sudden removal breached the last of the old soldier’s defences. Tears streamed down the former Company Sergeant Major’s stubbled cheeks, dripping unheeded as the room fell back into darkness.

On the dawn of his sixty-sixth birthday, Darren Caistor wept for the soul of his seven-year old granddaughter.

Camden, London. Wednesday, 18th November.

Kara Wright looked through half-closed venetian blinds at the busying street-scene below. The weak, wintery November sun hadn’t yet managed to rise above the tops of the buildings, but a limp infusion of grey crept down the Kentish Town Road. It gave just enough light to pick out the heavily-cocooned early-risers, struggling against the wind that threatened to freeze them before they reached the warmth of their work.

She frowned at the weather awaiting her, but for now, wrapped in her dressing gown, towel atop her head, cup of tea in one hand and a slice of toast in the other, she was quite content. Her day didn’t promise much.

A half hour from now she would venture out for a run with her business partner, Tien. The rest of the morning would be spent working on some background-checks for a City-based HR firm, followed by an afternoon meeting with a financial advisor called Shonel, who was trying to inform her about the best way to plan for the future. Kara was yet to be convinced about share portfolios, unit trusts or Government bonds.

She took a bite of toast just as her mobile phone vibrated its dull drone on the coffee table. Chewing quickly and taking a swig of tea to wash it down, she made her way across the room and noticed the incoming call had its number withheld. Placing her cup on the table, she retrieved the phone.


“Hello Kara. It’s me… Today?”

PRE-Order the e-book NOW 

Ian Andrew

Ian Andrew is the author of the alternative history novel A Time To Every Purposethe detective thrillers Face Value and Flight Path and the Little Book of Silly Rhymes & Odd Verses. All are available in e-book and paperback. Follow him on social media:

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