"Poppies whose roots are in man's veins"

Break of Day in the Trenches
by Isaac Rosenberg

The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens ?
What quaver--what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe--
Just a little white with the dust.

Poppies

I was in England last week. Since I was there on business and most of my time was well and truly scheduled beyond my control, I had no chance to nip into the Imperial War Museum or British Army Museum for more research on the book I'm writing about Walter's life. I'm also disappointed that there was no time to go by the Cenotaph.
I did stop and take a photo of the Animals in War monument on Park Lane across from Hyde Park. "They had no choice," the sculpture says.

I also bought a couple of poppies, which I proudly wear in remembrance of Walter and Bert. Bert lost his life at Aubers Ridge in May, 1915. And Walter lost his brother.

We won't forget.