The Red Poppy

He stands in front of the mirror
flattens his collar and adjusts his tie
with tremored hands,
places a beret above his furrowed brow,
deep lines carved in an aging canvas,
and stares straight ahead
at the image reflected in the glass
 
A mere boy stares back at him
so young yet old beyond his age,
eyes clouded with intrepidation
of events never to form an uttered word
except once in a while
with those who remember the same monster;
those whose faces hover in the mists
behind him
... but they are growing fewer
year by year
 
A hand rests lightly on his shoulder
It’s time to go,
have you forgotten anything?
 
Ortona 

Dieppe

Normandy 

Rimini 

Scheldt ... 

He blinks,
the boy now gone, just an old man
staring back at him.
He picks up his blood red poppy,
pins it to his lapel,
turns his back to the mirror 
and slowly walks away
 
No, he says,
through silent tears
I haven't forgotten a thing.
 

Janet Reid
november 2010 
 



 
Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Bri



 
Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Frizzi