Red Poppies
 

Lapels stained with red poppies,
Not blood, but tears and flashbacks,
The faces as fresh as on the day they died.
Vivid memory and regret, if only
They had slept another hour,
Perhaps they would not now all rest in peace,
Away from tortured conscience.
Nurtured guilt, and photographs
Gathering dust in empty houses,
Gnawing at the souls of the survivors,
Like rats in trenches at the front.
The pain has passed from the dead
To the living, who were spared,
Only to live for years in agony,
Haunted by dreams and faces,
Voices, pleas and places.
Glory in survival, glory for the dead,
March in honour and regret,
Feeling left out, but alive.
Rain cools tear-stained faces,
Remembrance cleanses guilty souls,
Red poppies glistening in the grey morning.