A Poppy In Winter

November mists come down in shrouds of grey

and folk remember, with their poppies red,

the loss of sixteen million war dead

and how the guns fell silent on this day.

So who are you to deem to have a say

on whether I should honour those who bled

by crimson colours? – or perhaps, instead,

in remembrance there is another way.

For I would guess that mo...

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