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.
John McCrae would be moved to hear this read today, and heaven knows them both now. Rest in Peace the Fallen, the tortured, and the maimed. We will remember so it never happens again.
Bristol Cathedral, a lone woman pays respects to the shrouded figures, these represent the fallen British soldiers, on the first day at the Somme. This installation is by Somerset artist Rob Heard. Photograph by Matt Austin.