The Poppies
And in the distance the cannon fire
of our old lives fell silent
The searing artillery melted into brushstroked art
And our legion of long service cares
emerged blinking from behind the worry lines
to fraternise with hope.
That Sunday afternoon after the armistice of knowing
that love could be part of the sunrise
we left the bondfires of Lewes
to explore the smoke that smoulders within.
We were at peace with the poppies
whispering like moths wings on a perfect Sussex hillside
Feeling the fairy stems caress our legs
like a repeated yes, yes.
And amongst the dragonflies and chalklines
we could hear echoes in the landscape
A Copper Family chorus, a shepherd’s whistle
Trickling down the folds in the chalk, Beacon to meadow,
bloodspot poppies dabbed amongst the Marjoram and Thyme,
tiny chips of time preserved in fleeting chalk
as we moulded the moment
like diligent and gentle flintwall makers
Uncorking time profligately like post war refugees
Allowing it to pour as a navigation trickle,
a bead from a furrowed forehead to a burnished amber estuary
buzzing with insect chatter over balmy dew ponds
here in the green dough folds of life after conflict
slumbering in the afternoon haze on the hottest day of the year
when the poppies silkily kissed our skin
pressing their smell on us like fine opium
And we paused to inhale the moment
taking it deep inside
marking the stamen heartbeat
remembering the Cenotaph paths and the McCrae words
that didn’t dampen pneumonia or cure a war
as his poppies bled in Flanders a century ago
where wholesale death
was bartered for peace at any price.
So we stood to attention in the sun
In deference to the millions of could have been lives
the wraith-like regiments walking towards us
wishing they were us
watching us scythe despair down in warm blood
so that the poppies could become flowers again.
Roy Stannard 17th July 2013
Hear it on Soundcloud here: https://soundcloud.com/roystannard/the-poppies
Hear the live version originally broadcast on The Whole Nine Yards 18.7.13 here: