Ernestine Northover (25th March 1943)
*** Crimson Red
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
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (*** Crimson Red by Ernestine Northover )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley