I left the Sunday School that morn
To robe and join the choir;
The poppies blazed on coat and hat,
The organ swelled still higher.

Within the vestry someone spoke,
In tones subdued and slow:
"Have you heard what they've done now?"—
The words we’d learned to know.

For even children knew the phrase
And what it meant to say:
The bomb, the dead, the broken lives,
Another Sabbath day.

The grown-ups paused a quiet space,
Then reached for robe and book;
No cries, no gasps, just silent eyes
And one exhausted look.

Above us stood the timbered beams,
Before us, cross and aisle;
A boy stepped out to lead the way;
We followed up the aisle.

And so we sang the hymns of old,
And read the prayers by rote,
While news from Enniskillen hung
Like smoke in every note.

The names of older wars were read,
The wreaths were duly borne,
Yet fresh-made grief stood at the door
That cold Remembrance morn.

And still that quiet question rings
Across the years somehow:
"Have you heard what they’ve done now?"—
No shock, just sorrow now.

Author’s note

Written in 2026, this poem recalls Remembrance Sunday, 8 November 1987, when I was a nine-year-old chorister at St Patrick’s Parish Church, Kilconriola, in Ballymena. It draws on my memory of hearing the news of the Enniskillen bombing in the choir vestry, and of the quiet, weary sorrow we shared—children and adults alike, already terribly familiar with the violence around us.