The Colour of Poppies

This poem was written in November 2014 at a time when there were many events to commemorate the centenary of the commencement of the First World War…

The poppy that I wear is white.
Safety-pinned to my coat, self-conscious in its isolation
amidst a sea of red.

At the Cenotaph, at hundreds of ‘lesser’ memorials
scattered amongst market towns and village greens,
people stand, heads bowed, and for a moment
a precious silence falls.

No silence, though, in those far-flung lands.
Not poppy-seeded, centagenarian fields,
but arid, mountain-fringed desert.
Towns, villages, mortared to rubble,
Prayers called
from the remnants of a mosque.

A child, schoolbook in hand.
A missing limb
A missing parent
A missing brother, holed up with rebels in the hills.

Politicians speak but do not listen
to the screams of the souls of their dead.
‘No more, no more’ the chant of the grieving,
the wail from white-sheeted bodies
lining a corridor where lights flicker and fail.
No water to wash them clean.

Even I, immersed in the politics of peace,
Fail to resolve the conflicts at my door.
What hope for those, three thousand miles away,
caught up in war?

And, after all,
the poppies that we wear are red. image: poppies

© Anne de Gruchy

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