A mother morns her fallen son.
Red poppies plucked from the garden.
Their severed stems entwined, life ripped from mother earth.
At the epitaph her salted tears mix with November rain.
‘They shall not grow old. As we that are left grow old’
Limp and lifeless she holds the wreath against her breast.
A bosom that once cradled a child torn from her by wars blood lust.
Shoulders shaking she silently weeps her dreams shattered,
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
Once Binyon’s poetry swelled her heart with sad pride for the fallen.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
There is no pride, no heaving bosom as she sets down the wreath,
just emptiness that exists from dawn to dusk.
We will remember them.
She will remember him!
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