The poppy is such an evocative symbol. Its fragility and beauty are a reminder of slain youth, and its ubiquity a testimony to the millions who have died on countless battlefields from 1914 onwards. Every family has its own memories of war and of those who have perished. For some the grief is so recent that even speaking about it makes one feel a sense of trespass. But during tomorrow's two minute silence, we can all pray: for the dead, that they may rest in peace; for the living, that we may learn to live at peace with one another. For myself, Remembrance Sunday is always tinged with mixed emotions. My grandfathers both survived the First World War, my father survived the Second; but two uncles died, for one there is not even a grave; and others have died since, in Iraq and Afghanistan. War, and the pity of war, seem never to have been very far away, because old soldiers and old sailors alike need to tell the story of "their" war. I think, too, of all those "maiden ladies" of my youth, whose sweethearts never returned from the trenches. Horrible children that we were, we sometimes poked fun at their poverty and dutifulness, but I can't help feeling that they gave us something precious: their kindness and their concern for those less fortunate. They too understood the value of sacrifice.