Sonnet 123

She wears a poppy on her dress in bleak
November. Like a dash of blood upon
Her breast, and so in homage thus to seek
Solace and remember, faces now gone,
Who gave their precious red for the great cause
That fades now like the sound of distant guns,
In minds of some; but to others gives great pause,
Ones who can’t forget those fallen mother’s sons.
Our children have long grown and left, and she
Did not remarry, though she ever could;
I promised her that I would never leave
And so my ghost beside her, ever stood;
Bound to her with a love few men will know,
As her to me, that crimson spot does show.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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