felicity fair – poetry
Where the Poppies Are
Seeing all these poppies at the Tower
she thinks of a quiet corner of a field,
wild poppies and fragments of dark slate,
white bones of a song bird, or
Them all. Him.
A spent shell risen. A rusted gun plate.
Huge rolled tangles of barbed wire
marking trenches on that drawn out line
and lives lived beside already buried men.
Dripping oil, and smell of fire and fear,
called up young men, and volunteer.
Horses. Screaming. Squelching mud,
and gunfire round.
Boots biting deep into that ground,
leaving pale thin scar –
and more over there.
A sign it might be where
He was his country’s man and King’s.
Like a cross now she bears his name.
These poppies glisten in the London sun.
Coming here, the Tower,
listening to young voices
generations on, so strong and clear,
for her this ceramic flower field blooms in bright blood red
and though he’s long dead, she cares.
She holds the line.
She’s glad she came. She knows