Where Poppies Would Not Grow.

(To Mark the 90th anniversary of the end of "The Great War").

At the cenotaph we stand

amid the chill; clocks ticking;

hands touching watches, then

thrust back into pockets.

Amid the blood-red symbols

we forget the meaning of.

Flowers that only bloom

in unrested ground; turned-

over, the shell-shocked furrows,

and craters filled with snow;

into a blaze of neglected

and sad glory that is forever lost.

Three old men, who have

passed their century of days -

not long now to shed more tears.

Comrades and even children gone,

such is their destiny to survive

until they are become dust, in still fields,

where poppies would not grow.