Well, This Is What I Think

I cover the earth like a riotous ruby blanket of forgetfulness
uninvited, ever-present, delicate yet enduring

I once waved in Flanders’ fields over the graves of millions
a memory of quick death raining from the sky and drenched by widows’ tears

Now: the one they suck on with pipes or plunge into their arms
a slow death inch by inch full of regrets, no watching tears

But here, on this stilled brown steel, this lost connection, I am suddenly a promise of life
I force my way to the sun, colouring the dead rails, reflecting Vincent’s light

See: I am death, I am life, I am just a flower, and the day?
The day is passing.