Standing tall, sentinel almost, the deep red caught the rising sun. A gentle breeze allowed it to sway chivalrous in its solitude.

Acres of grass reach out to the new day, not knowing it would be hay before the sun set again.   The solitary poppy splashed a transitory flash of colour in the golden field. A token to the once fallen soldier who fell at this point in a time far removed from today’s stillness.

The field next door where the battle main took place, is strewn with poppies; red, green and the occasional oxymoronic white one marching in the wind.   A constant reminder of the cruel history of this place; the blood, the innocence of youth and the reluctant all fallen together.

Next day the poppy lays felled, I pick it up.  Not for fodder this one but my table at home will offer it a final resting place.