Poppy
A single red poppy, the symbol of grief,
a circle of poppies, commemorative wreath.
A colour so eye catching, deepest of red,
a shade representing the blood that was shed.
A natural narcotic encased in its' bloom,
reminds us of pain, and impending doom.
With wafer thin petals and delicate stem,
fragility reigned in the lives of those men.
Falling in thousands first one then another,
fathers with sons and their nephews and brothers.
The poppy seeds scatter, they drop in the breeze
fall to the ground like those men on their knees.
A new generation of life had begun,
because those brave men fought our battle and won.
Those sacrificed souls, the spoils of war,
ensured our release so that peace reigned once more.
At attention in death, row on row of white stones
annonymous soldiers, no names and no homes.
So when the parade passes by, rifles shoot
and fragile old soldiers raise hands in salute.
For the ignorant people who walk past and stare,
remember we're here, because those men were there.
© Ellen Johns
