THE BLOODY POPPY

These long, black evenings fill me with premonitions
The falling of the leaves reminds us of our losses
Captain Wilfred Owen killed in action during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal
One week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice
Such terrifying bloomings of a malignant fate force us back into caves.
We dream of warmth, food, sleep
In a blue-haze
Of guilty imaginings
Survivors guilt: blood up to the hilt.
Cushions the incursions of bitter reality for a while.
Until the instress of the dead
Settles like a swamp inside my head.
These eleventh hour remembrances freeze the daily bustle
Make an epiphany of wasted minutes, hours
Gloom settles like a blanket as the clock strikes eleven
Rain clouds bring a Golgotha darkness at noon;
As birds scavenge these arid streets
All those who can have gone, fled, flown,
Left the mist into which these dead chrysanthemum
Petals drip.
The only flower now is the bloody poppy
Pinned to the jackets of a few upright old men.