The ground below my feet is red
not red from blood
but flurries of poppies
descended from above
Each poppy a soul
a person with a name
I do not know
we've never met before
One on my shoulder
two on my head
gently resting and beckoning
making me aware of lives frailty
Many questions come to mind
who are you
where did you come from
what happened to you
Perhaps we've met before
or shall we meet
my feet won't move
they're surrounded
Winds blow briskly
poppies flutter into the air
gathering speed
and they are gone until another year.
until another year
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