I stood and watched, head bowed, as raindrops fell,
upon the Poppy Wreaths of crimson red.
They trickled down the petals like slow tears,
washing away the blood that had been shed.
And names inscribed in lead, now wet, shone out,
whilst gun metal clouds hovered overhead.
Footsteps sounded loud, as on concrete slabs,
people filed past, to pay their own respects.
Each one remembering a friend long gone,
Father or Son maybe, then recollects,
that person whom they loved, they're loving still,
and in that moment, each dear soul connects.
Each year we buy our Poppy, crimson red,
to wear upon our shoulder in respect.
Tributes laid out on grey memorial steps,
remind us of those lost, and we reflect,
that what they did for us, they did with pride,
and no clouds will our memories deflect.
© Ernestine Northover