Poppy - A Poem

She is not made for tight bouquets

Nor bridal wreath nor floral sprays,

No crystal tube of water contains

Her dwindling days.

She does not yield the heady perfume of the rose

Which clusters round secluded bowers

Nor does she exude the sickly sweet attraction

Of exotic Orchid flowers.

Her head erect amid the standing corn

She holds her scarlet petals to the sky

A flaming star -

The simple flag that waved on Flanders meadows

Staining the countryside around blood red

As if she sucked from muddy earth beneath her

The vital fluids of the countless dead.

Crying for humanity, black-eyed in deepest sympathy.

Now laid on cenotaphs and tombs

In sad remembrance, every passing year

Of those young men who marched away to battle

In happy comradeship that understood no fear.

A simple flower

That holds the veneration

Of every mourning nation.

Yet, she is more than this

For t'was her fiery blush

Inspired the artist to take up his paints and brush

And daub her crimson glory,

Spread thick on canvas sheet

Remembrance of cloudless, azure skies

And Summer's sultry heat above the yellow corn

Reflections of a golden age re-born.

Hung proudly now on stately gallery walls

Both to delight and to enthrall

The mind and eye of each and every

Culture hungry soul that passes by.

Poppy!

What other bloom is there which does and can

Bring both sadness and joy deep into

The heart of man at the same time -

She is sublime!

How drab this tired old word and poor

If silken, scarlet Poppy was no more.

 

                                                               Copyright 1999