The Poppy
Posted: Sat Apr 19, 2014 8:50 am
The Poppy
AN ANZAC DAY POEM
© ROD WALFORD 2014
I could almost hear the gunfire raining down upon the sand
As the old man stooped to place his poppy with a trembling hand.
He reached not for the cenotaph, nor on the ground beneath;
Instead, he placed it gently in a Regimental wreath.
I pondered on the horrors this old soldier must have seen
In the carnage of the battles in the lands where he had been.
I wondered just how many of his friends were cut to shreds
Or died in bloody agony upon their makeshift beds.
He stood in quiet homage in the silence of that dawn
A tough yet humble warrior as ever had been born.
And then he turned and walked away, and left his poppy there;
A symbol of remembrance in the chilly morning air.
A haunting silence followed, then a piper's lone lament
Rose high upon the breeze and echoed in the firmament.
I watched the old man turn his face toward his family
And silently gave thanks to him for what he'd done for me.
The poppy that he placed that day no longer seemed forlorn
As it rested with the others in that wreath on Anzac morn.
He'd worn it proudly on his chest, with medals he had won,
But in that wreath, the living and the lost became as one.
AN ANZAC DAY POEM
© ROD WALFORD 2014
I could almost hear the gunfire raining down upon the sand
As the old man stooped to place his poppy with a trembling hand.
He reached not for the cenotaph, nor on the ground beneath;
Instead, he placed it gently in a Regimental wreath.
I pondered on the horrors this old soldier must have seen
In the carnage of the battles in the lands where he had been.
I wondered just how many of his friends were cut to shreds
Or died in bloody agony upon their makeshift beds.
He stood in quiet homage in the silence of that dawn
A tough yet humble warrior as ever had been born.
And then he turned and walked away, and left his poppy there;
A symbol of remembrance in the chilly morning air.
A haunting silence followed, then a piper's lone lament
Rose high upon the breeze and echoed in the firmament.
I watched the old man turn his face toward his family
And silently gave thanks to him for what he'd done for me.
The poppy that he placed that day no longer seemed forlorn
As it rested with the others in that wreath on Anzac morn.
He'd worn it proudly on his chest, with medals he had won,
But in that wreath, the living and the lost became as one.