Poppies In Profusion

Poppies in Profusion on the proud chests of the Brave Old and aging survivors, of a time when things were Grave Stones on a hillside, edelweiss under Moon Light on a bomber’s wing carrying canisters of doom. White hot flames of children, screaming Blue murder in the darkness, instead of dreaming. Nightmares manifest in visions real, or of pretence Starving, bloated young ones, strung up on a fence. A fence, THE fence, a barrier between your land and mine A hatred, a blaming, wrath crushing grapes into wine. Perhaps your thoughts are different, the way that things are said Somehow it makes no difference, for we both bleed blood… And it is Red. The blood which flows to the horse’s halters in the Valley Of Death, with notches on a sickle for a tally. What glory now? It is drowned, in the red of the blood Of the Poppies in Profusion: a war memorial in flood.