A poem for my grandfather, William Bell
Beneath the cross the sleeping poppies lie. They are the dead and those about to die. Best we forget the fields of flowers, in which we spent our final hours and gazed upon a mournful sky, with eyes that could not see or cry. Best we forget the road to war. The path to glory tread no more. Best we wipe clean the debt you owe, you who watched us march and go. Lest in our final breath or sigh, we may remember why.