Cracked teeth of headstones
speckle the verdure adorning
rolling slopes that vanish
below the horizon.
Leaves rustle in the wrought iron
gate carried by a forlorn sigh ,
trapped on inlaid plates of bronze
that designate where valor lies.
Worn flags, stiff with age,
quiver like the hearts of doves.
Poppies in the common droop
overcome by the scent of copper.
They flourish among the hallowed treasure
as far as the eye can see,
by Moina Michaels
“We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies”