The scarlet balloon lies limpid,

in tatters, spread out, ripped poppies

on the sunlit field;

amidst other flowers too, those

of children, saints, sinners, the overworked;

in dress for weekend leisure,

beyond the eaves of some high wood;

and some run across, stretched rubber

scuffed, faded, sole-imprinted.

 

Those that lived their names and-

saw day of fire follow day of fire;

now putrid, whitewashed; songs for the fallen

in a hollow common;

more of a bowl than level playing field.

Sunken by the weight of a generation’s lies,

now blown clear in calming winds.