In this clearing in the woods so full of butter coloured flowers
I know there is a mass grave underneath, a forgotten war,
bones of the nameless that died for a cause that was not theirs,
but they were loyal and when told to fight and they often died,
many never knowing why. At the edge, of the yellow field,
there are pale poppies, the dead have no more blood to offer.
I think of Afghanistan, poppies there are more deadly, I wonder
if western soldiers who lost their lives in a cause that is unclear,
will get their own graveyard and have their crosses there,
in a Muslim country, tended to with fresh flowers, but go easy
on the poppies. The skeletons under my feet, died because of
salt, that once upon a time before oil was big business, but I’m
sure the soldiers were told lies about nationality and freedom.
