On the first of December

you smile a lovers smile,

drink her in across the room,

fine wine loosens the tongue

and the table-top drums

to our laughter.

 

You tell silly jokes

pulled from a snap,

party popped in red

her lips shine

only for you.

 

It seems red's a colour

you know too well

as I watch you move

towards the military,

the 'other' you, say,

 

'there is great beauty, if you look hard enough.'

 

So tell me?

Does Christmas come

when the Taliban stop

kneel down to pray?

 

And I know you've seen others dressed with red.

 

Unlucky the bootneck who dies

if he pulls the wrong shift?

Unluckier still the child.

 

You say,

'Not all poppies are red..

Brown-green the money makers

as fast flows the white powdered habit,

so you don't walk on the fields.'

 

Please,

don't   walk   on   the   fields.

 

And a life time away

farmers cry a poor man's dream

as we?

Well,

we open another

red.