Poppies on Grey

A Field, a mass,

Entangled stems,

Eaten at the edge,

Trampled weeds and thistles trimmed,

Dashed with doughty poppies red.

One colour, red,

Is all that speaks,

The rest to background fade,

Where in life’s colour spectrum breach,

‘Tis red that soaks the grave.

©Philip Holden

2003

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