(For all at Brook House and Overbrook, Dawlish.)
In Flanders fields that May,
watered with chlorine tears,
frail red blooms
appeared as usual,
anticipating nothing
but their own brevity.
Now they weep themselves
for a time when they can
parade again
simply as flowers,
beautiful, unadorned.
They pray to the sun
that we remember well enough
to release them
for eternity.
3rd November 2013
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem