Friday + A Poem

Well, you seemed to enjoy my three-part ghost story that I concluded yesterday. However, I am not going straight on to another tale of that kind for the moment.

I do not have a great deal to write about . It is all very quiet here. We are having trouble with the new front door we had fitted earlier in the year. Whether it has "dropped" we do not know but the fact is that the key no longer works in the lock. Not a problem with the lock or the key. This happened shortly after it was fitted and they had to take the door off and re-hang it. We have been in contact with the firm and they are supposed to be calling this afternoon to fix the problem.

Also we noticed that there is a small gap at the bottom edge which is letting in cold air and letting warm air out. It is chilly today and not a good day to have the door taken off but it needs to be done. I only hope that they do turn up and that the work can be done right away.

I decided to re-post one of my poems. Some will have read it, others not but I do think a poem can stand re-reading. So, without Further ado:

POPPY.

She is not made for tight bouquets,
Nor bridal wreath nor floral sprays,
No crystal tube of water contains
Her dwindling days.

She does not yield the heady perfume of the rose
Which clusters round secluded bowers ,
Nor does she exude the sickly sweet attraction
Of exotic Orchid flowers.

Her head erect amid the standing corn
She holds her scarlet petals to the sky,
A flaming star -
The simple flag that waved on Flanders meadows
Staining the countryside around blood red,
As if she sucked from muddy earth beneath her
The vital fluids of the countless dead.

Crying for humanity, black-eyed in deepest sympathy,
Now laid on countless cenotaphs and tombs
In sad remembrance, every passing year,
Of those young men who marched away to battle
In happy comradeship that understood no fear.

A simple flower
That holds the veneration
Of every mourning nation.
Yet, she is more than this -
For t'was her fiery blush
Inspired the artist to take brush
And daub her crimson glory
Spread thick on canvas sheet,
Remembrance of cloudless azure skies
And Summer's sultry heat

Above the yellow corn,
Reflections of a golden age re-born.

Hung proudly now on stately gallery walls -
Both to delight and to enthral
The mind and eye of each and every
Culture hungry soul that passes by.

Poppy!

What other bloom is there which does and can
Bring both sadness and joy deep into
The heart of man at the same time -
She is sublime!
How drab this tired old world and poor
If silken, scarlet Poppy was no more.

Copyright 1999