In Northern skies where legends rise,
A voice once echoed through the pines,
With muddy boots and laughter bold,
A heart of grit, a soul of gold.

He marched through lands both near and far,
From Falklands’ winds to Afghan scars,
A soldier’s strength, a leader’s grace,
With Royal Signals he found his place.

But battles don’t define a man—
He built a tribe with his own hands.
On hills and trails, in sweat and rain,
He pulled us through the toughest strain.

“Get off your knees,” he’d call with fire,
“Don’t have your head where you’ll expire!”
And if you wavered, lost or stunned—
“You’ll be grand. Now, get it done.”

Through hikes that healed and bootcamps burned,
We found our fight, we found we’d earned
The pride he planted, deep and wide—
He walked beside us, not far, not high.

His laugh—a storm of joy and cheer,
Could crack the clouds, make burdens clear.
He rallied souls, made strangers kin,
The light he gave came from within.

But on the 11th day, cold fell—
November’s wind had tales to tell.
A light went out, the sky turned grey,
And silence met Remembrance Day.

Still—William walks the Mountain breeze,
Where hearts recall him through the trees.
In every climb, each shared sunrise,
He lives in echoes, never dies.

We raise a glass and we lace our boots,
We honor the man who grew deep roots.
A loving son, a brother, a friend—
In all our journeys, he’ll never end.

— For William Onion. Legend. Leader. Light.