Subtle streams of poppy petals settle at my feet,
the fallen frieze of summer’s lease, its transience complete,
discarded leaves like memories of unrepentant grief
cavort upon the autumn breeze decayed by time, the thief.

Remembrance of a bitter season thrown upon the world,
when blood and bone would fertilize as fiefdom’s flags unfurled,
entrenched in mud, the good intentions blown apart by fear,
if only Spring might rear its head and Winter disappear.

A million marches made of feet that fall in hammered doom,
a battlefield of bodies rotting doesn’t leave much room
for poetry and positive contractions of the mind
when ears can’t hear and eyes can’t see as chlorine burns them blind.

A petal picked and pressed inside the pages of a book
impresses prints of past endeavours, how the heavens shook,
forget-me-not’s and poppies placed in regimented ranks
remind me what our honour cost and why I owe my thanks.