Saturday, May 14, 2011
They might be poppies
I thought at first they were poppies,
flashes of blood red smudged
against the sky of the dying day,
natural tombstones anchored
in fields of summer green.
I brought you one that day,
you remember. You touched
each petal lightly, tracing
your fingers along the edges.
He died at the Somme,
you said, a half-written letter
in his pocket. I wouldn’t read it,
you said, staring at orange
purple clouds of sunset,
but I have it still.
Dedicated to Charity Singleton*
This poem is submitted to One Shot Sunday, hosted by One Stop Poetry. To see more poems based on one of five photo prompts by photographer Fee Easton, please visit the site.
*This poem is dedicated to Charity Singleton. If you make a donation to The High Calling during the month of May, I've committed to dedicate a poem to you. Just let me know via the comment box or an email that you made a donation (not the amount).
Photograph by Fee Easton. Used with permission for One Stop Poetry.