THE POPPIES

They slip from hairy buds

grow pink and red mouths

thin and crinkled

till the sun irons them

with yellow waves

            This morning

sodden with rain,

they hung their heads

like old women in mourning

while the sun hid in a sullen sky

          Now they frolic in the wind,

bright bonnets open

to the glittering light,

and I think of another day like this

so ripe with change

nearly two years ago

           Early evening

high on the bluffs over Fulford bay,

your voice opened a door

I stepped through

into the blue trees,

                        silence,

the quiet fire of your arms