Poppies at a Cenotaph

By the busy roundabout near my house
stands a tall colourless monument
stubbornly still, as the traffic whirls.

I must have passed it a hundred times;
it tells me the commute's end is near.

Today as I passed the silent stone
I saw at its feet wreaths of poppies,
and I stopped for the first time, transfixed.
Poppies of paper - fragile and brave,
confronting gently the passing day.

The obelisk reached quietly up
into the autumnal English sky,
the inscription of names fading away.
There was courage and sadness in its shape.

I knelt down. The ageing monolith,
paper flowers and fading names
gathered me up into their space.
Someone had seen. And remembered.
Someone had stopped and cried red tears.

(Bexley 2006)