Poppies – a much-praised weed,
Only emerging when the soil is churned
To rise, gaudy wind-swept bonnets
Dropping red ribbons on the ground.
Flushed cheeks around the their black centre
Waiting for the time to dry and die,
Drop more seeds into the ground,
To wait until such a moment
When another turning of the soil
Will raise the poppies to the sky.
At last I am back on-schedule. This pleases me, as does the chance to write about poppies simply as a flower – not as a symbol, not as a drug, just as a flower.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic