The Violets Of Violence Poem by Michael Walker

The bombs burst in the air - red, white, and blue -
As children carry baskets full of flowers.
We do not want to believe it is true;
Who thought that these would be our final hours?

Nice bodies sprawled along the promenade,
Drawn and quartered for the world to see.
Who heard what were the words that we had prayed?
Could anybody heed each bleeding plea?

We smell the violets of violence!
Against the Eldest Daughter of the Church,
And now, the saints must suffer in silence,
Whilst those left on the Earth live in the lurch.

Bloodshed marks the night of the Bastille,
As starlit seas ask if this can be real.