For all of you
Who’ve gone to ground
Fallen in a season
For which life
Had not yet come around
Bleakest autumn
Fell upon your spring

I remember
And I write

Words seeking time
In some future dream
When the Flanders torch
Shall not be passed
We will no longer ask
The young to die
For causes wrought
Upon the lie
Of righteousness

A time when poppies bloom
In their rightful spring
Not this remorseful
Autumnal rite
No longer red
No blood be spilled
But lovely white
Our peace fulfilled