Anzac poppy.
Small and sweet.
Crushed beneath the soldiers feet.
Fragile petals.
Red as blood.
Spilled upon the Flanders mud.
Flowers.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
For you my dreams I dread.
I want to leave you.
Trenches.
The mud was heavy, dirty and the rain poured down.
Trenches being dug by diggers and then being used for safety.
Blood dripping into the trenches from all the fallen soldiers.
Soldiers lying down taking cover to not die.
The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand.
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping,
But mine in my ear is safe,
Just a little white with the dust.
No comments:
Post a Comment