Poppies look out from your shade
fading back as if to go,
as your light begins to fade,
so like you my dear friend Joe,
bivouacked there with footman Tom
under fire along the Somme,
your lives hanging by a thread
embedded in the Flanders mud;
all your letters she has shown me, speaks of love you have known,
Minnie in her maid’s attire
would to all of us, inspire,
I can see a certain grace now
your love is written in her face,
as you linger with your traces
your old boots still trail their laces,
when I try to make her laugh
she turns towards your photograph;
pulls back the curtains all the way
and gazes out into the sky,
and dreams of you in Flanders
fields, I will not ask for I know why.
Our skies are turning into grey,
we hear what whistles passed your ears
and did not have your number on it,
and when you climb across the top
I’ll crawl along with you in spirit.
Poppies looked out from your shade
and we are left, bereft of you,
but my dear friend, I cannot see
what life would be, not knowing you.
Visit Roy’s website at roykaustin.weebly.com.
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