Whilst out one cold November day
I watched a young man start to play
Where grass no longer cared to grow
I’d say his years, seventeen or so!

With trumpet pressed against his lips
Then lightest touch of fingertips
A tune which ripped into my soul
The sound of church bells then did toll!

Eleven times they gently wept
Then silence of two minutes crept
No sound was heard for miles away
On this we name Armistice Day!

With that the lad just smiled then went
Into a mist from not known whence
Upon the ground just where he stood
Were poppies red like ruby blood!

Amongst the poppies laid a cross
Made of wood outgrown in moss
Words inscribed said age unknown
This trumpeter can now go home!


© by LynnKaren