the passing pleasure of poppies

when November finds us
remembering red
processions of poppies
flooding over, up,
between the intrusions
of day’s early dying
the fragile thrall of frosted night
remembering lights
now scattered, dimly lying,
we were adrift once
with petaled profusions
on brighter winds than these

when November finds us
across this brittle distance
deep fields of sea between
the you you were
the I I was
before the burning pull
of your August lips
remember the blazing
pillared paths of hands
the pleasing pulse of poppies
the ruby red hum
of blood in throes of summer
and infinite we

© Sarah Whiteley

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11 thoughts on “the passing pleasure of poppies

  1. i’ve been following your posts since you wrote on my blog a few weeks ago… and i’m really enjoying them. there’s a rare, undulating quality to this poem in particular that seems to mimic the ebbtide of your title; the lack of punctuation, thoughts running into one another. simple, yet beautiful. for me it passes the acid test — you can *feel* the sense of the poem from its sounds and rhythms before you understand its meaning… if that makes any sense!

    1. No, actually it isn’t, but I can see where you would have gotten that impression.

      Poppies to me always bring to mind passion and in my experience neither seems to last for long,… that was the idea behind the piece.

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