Even in these jaded, jealous days
Over these clouded, grey horizons;
They wait still, beneath greening tendrils,
Bowing yet to the breeze in salutation

Despite the muddied, earthy eulogies,
Well intentioned; growing pale in the light;
Shaded brown and miserable in text-books,
Dying forever in slow, sepia moments

But one colour stands up to long service;
Eclipses all the washed-out hues,
The watery pastels and paints,
Spilled, not mixed, upon the canvas

One brave colour carpets fields; blossoms
On still-beating breasts, here at home
Like blood-blooms from the entry of bullets
Or the weighty recognition, enduring always

That they should have been here longer,
Waving back, wild and windblown as the flowers;
Cherished and borne proudly and with honour
Like the Poppies; but they are all that remain.