Not all who are no longer with us are etched upon the clock.
Not every name is etched upon the clock. Still every name could walk the walk.
I’ll be out tabbing with them all as we’re here to talk. As I listen to the sounds of silence.
I’m making it up, it’s all in my head. As these mates who tab have long been dead.
For me it hurts less as my tears are shed. To tab with my mates rather than just lie in bed.
War never ends as it stays in your head. So the longing of the dead through tabbing is fed.
It’s my simple way to remain OK. As I tab for 10 miles on my hood roadway.
The locals are puzzled at this silly old man. With his Bergen and his smock doing all that he can.
Chasing 70 years old with a walk and a run. The only thing missing is a mission and a gun.
Step after step as I try not to fall. Pacing myself as I don’t want to hit the wall.
It’s a great distance to think and chat with mates. And before I know it I arrive back at my gates.
A couple of hours on this day once a year. In memory of those who are no longer here.
I now live each day as if it was my last without fear.
For I keep myself fit from January to December. But I keep this special session for 11th November.
Bob Shepherd 
Excellent poem Bob keep the good work up pilgrim.