Florence wears her poppy with pride.
Only a Bloody Mary to sit beside ,
fag a-dangle from painted lips,
burgeoning breasts child bearing hips.
All a-wobble; she waits for the last post.
Lips tremble; as she drinks a silent toast.
A widow of war; his body unfound.
Buried deep beneath foreign ground.
For peace he fought and lost his life,
Bullets, left lonly, a grieving wife.
Alone, eyes all a puddle, she stands,
Silently clasping her shaking hands.
Photo by Maria Orlova on Pexels.com
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.