Beacons Hill Poppies
A
beaten path, such steep incline
Brambly
hedges, no sense of time,
Who
walks this way to lofty heights?
No tip
toed feet nor laddered tights!
A
cluttered corridor to clouds of
grey,
Whose
footsteps match the moulds in clay?
What burden
carried those heavy feet
Where
heaven and man might dare to meet.
No
picnic here - just a to b,
No
place to stay - one destiny,
No
burrows, lairs no wildlife hoard
Yet
through this way have thousands soared
Yet
stop! Welcome breath, an inward gasp,
What
act of mercy should seek to clasp
Untouched
red beauty amid the thorns
Spared to colour the
prickly storms.
İPhilip
Holden
2003
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