Ah, Poppies. You poor, underrated soul.

There are so many beautiful flowers out there that sometimes it’s easy to forget the simple, really quite humble poppy. They pop up in abandoned construction yards, neglected greens, fields yet to be sown; they fill up the space in upturned and disregarded earth.

And yet they’re lovely.

Such a vivacious, striking red, that they can turn the bleakest of landscapes into somewhere worthy of your eye.

Something.

Something worth writing about, surely?

Red against sienna.

I want to reach through

the drizzle dappled, rather dented,

metal fencing.

To where

in tussled tufts,

spurts of colour slash

against sun beaten,

threadbare pools of sand.

To where,

tumbling thickets

of wild daises push up.

Their white petals turned,

drinking in honeyed warmth.

Where

cardinal poppies,

titian scarlet, cut through,

playing starlet in the sun streams.

I want the velveteen,

peach-fuzz softness

between thumb and forefinger

to stroke, caress or crush.

I want to breathe in something beautiful.

For we cannot feast on ghosts alone.

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3 thoughts on “Poppies. Poppies everywhere.

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