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.
Copyright © Stuart Ackerman | Year Posted 2015
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