The lights in our Farmers' Market dim and
there is momentary confusion till someone
whispers eleven o'clock and we stand in silence.
I look at my lapel, the poppy is missing, again.
I think of Passchendaele, a battle now one
hundred years ago, where more than four
thousand Canadians died.
Yet today only just over a third of us can
even pinpoint it to the First World War.
The lights return, I pay for my cheese and
move on to meat, fruit and vegetables.
On the way out, I buy another plastic poppy
from the cadets at the door and hope
they will remember why.
Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2017