While We All Remember Them.

Florence wears her poppy with pride.
Bloody Mary at the ready ,
fag a dangle from painted lips,
burgeoning breasts child bearing hips.
All a wobble; she waits for the last post.
Lips a tremble; as she drinks a silent toast.

Her eyes and demeanour belie her pain the most.
An orphan of war; his body unfound.
Buried deep beneath foreign ground.
For peace he fought and lost his life,
then suicide tore away his grieving wife.

Alone, eyes all a puddle, she stands. Two minutes never brings them back. Silently clasping her shaking hands.

While, we all remember them.

Do you think my attempt is too fickle for such a poignant rememberance? Leave me a comment its good to talk.

Thanks to the artist of Florence who holds full copyright, giffy for use of tumbling animation. Both poem and poppies are my own.

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