by Tony Richardson

Plastic petals crumble. Paper passes.
Crosses break. Arterial crimson fades.
Those ceramic flowers in masses
That tumbled from the Tower’s stone walls
(And stood above the peaceful well-kept lawn),
Their provenance may one day be forgot:
“I think your great great grandmama bought one . . .”.
‘Lest we forget’ – these scarlet icons prompt.

Flowers of Flanders Fields bloom on each year,
But feel no pain in their disease or death.
They miss no lover in a dying breath.
There is no hurt, that flowers need to bear –
They know no tear. But we may still remember
The filth, the pain, the fear. The endless years.

“No man’s knowledge here can go beyond his experience” – John Locke.