Poppies
D
David Wood
0
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Not even the warmth of the day
Could even dent their soft glow, the
Crimson red flooding through
The meadow, waving gently in the breeze
Not even the song thrush or nightingale
Could sing of their beauty. Only the
Hearts of mankind are warmed by
By their delicate shape and colour.
They stand in the stillness of the day
Waiting, waiting, their long stalks
Standing to attention as we, mere
Onlookers, gaze at their beauty.
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