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
áSpared to colour the prickly storms.
ęPhilip Holden

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