The poppy seller stands near the Rotunda. <br />He vends his paper flowers as before. <br />He wears a small red poppy in Remembrance <br />of heroes fallen in our nation’s wars. <br /> <br /> <br />The people pass as if he’s’ non existent, <br />more interested to buy well watered beer. <br />The Veteran feels the sting of their indifference- <br />Upon his grizzled cheek I spy a tear. <br /> <br /> <br />I cannot, will not also pass in silence <br />I stop and donate something at his stall <br />He stammers thanks, but he needn’t thank me- <br />more fitting that I thank those who gave all. <br /> <br /> <br />They who owed us nothing gave us everything. <br />We, their debtors, balk to pay our share. <br />And still the poppy flourishes in Burgundy, <br />past living memory, as a wordless prayer..<br /><br />John F. McCullagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poppy-seller/
