“Remembrance is our duty”, preachers scold.
The duty’s yours, not mine; my conscience? Clear.
I’ve stood on duty, rain, hail, freezing cold,
Protesting first the lies, then deaths, then tears.
Remembrance, once in quiet grief-struck thought,
Derides now, that their warm red blood had run.
The flower of our hope’s debased and mocked,
Out on parade with Strictly Tit and Bum.
Remembrance now, conspires with Death’s machine,
The Prince of Peace is spat on, crowned with thorns.
No moral compass, but a weather vane
To filthy lucre points, the Fallen, scorned.
Dear flower of hope, bloom always in my heart,
My duty’s vowed to thee; peace is our art.
This poppy was made for me by the Granddaughter of an airman who had earned the DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross UK), having, amongst other missons, flown over Stuttgart, one of the most heavily defended German cities in WW2.