Poppies by Vivien Teasdale

 As we are heading towards remembrance Sunday, I thought this might be appropriate. We're just dead heading the last of ours in the garden.

Poppies

An offering in his grubby hand,

scratched where he’d scrambled over stones

to pluck the scarlet flowers,

drinking their claret cup

of summer in the scorching sun;

Imagined joy comforts his lateness.

Going home, jubilant,

face raised for his mother’s kiss.

Her slap scratches where she marks her words

with meaning, scarlet anger brimming over.

Bouquet, drooping in the cruel glare,

cascades burning tears down his grubby fist.