PHOTO: Poppy wreaths abound at the Menin Gate in
A teacher once swept me into the words. I’ve bumped into the poem a number of times since then.
A fabric poppy in the display reminds me of the times that veterans greeted me at a doorway to buy a poppy to wear. I’d wind the wire stem around a handle of my gym bag and keep it there until the wire wore weak and the poppy fell off. Funny, the ripple effect of a poem.
Here I stand, reading a poem again, this time in another country.
The display in the museum makes me realize the origin of the poppy remembrance. As much as
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
Stand again, in another country.
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