Commute recommenced,
the verges rekindled their
annual morning conversations,
heard twenty times
As my muscle memory drove,
I sought the last red comments
of poppy heads cheering,
but the long, dry grasses
sounded familiar tired whispers
that threatened to drown
I could allow them to dictate the script
of another season,
clichés so often spoken
as to be silence
but I can still hear
the poppy red
I hear the poppy red
