Every poppy is a person,
Every poppy is a man,
Almost all are under thirty,
Death, not their intended plan.

Every poppy is a person,
Which one ‘s Sam?, They look the same,
Each red poppy head blown open,
All alike, but each alone.

Every poppy stands unmoving,
Stalk embedded in the mud,
Head impaled on metal ramrod,
London Tower likes its blood.

Some are scarlet in the sunlight,
Bright warm blood that‘s newly shed,
Others in the shade congealing,
Cast a deeper, darker red.

Do not fill this moat with water,
Fill it with this wasted blood,
Crimson, deep, coagulating,
Mix it with the honest mud.

Shadows of the crowd stand witness,
Cast against the Tower’s shell,
Shadows of the living watching
Images of those who fell.

Birds alight on poppy sculptures,
They alone have movement still,
Though the artificial structures
Leave them with an empty bill.

Stand as giants, Poppy Reapers,
Wrench off heads and stack them up,
Stash them into plastic coffins,
Each red rounded skull packed up.

Looking back towards the Tower,
Moat invisible and sunk,
See the living only, prowling,
Hidden are the men of note.

Disappearing are the poppies,
Feel the sadness as they go,
Feel the loss, and then remember
Men demolished, row on row.