Welcome back to the trail. This post is deeply personal, born from a freezing morning in the garden where I went out simply to grab a quick photograph of our last rose of the year. Unexpectedly, when I rested it against the pale rose, the velvet red of my remembrance poppy created a striking, solemn, contrast. Upon closer inspection, the white petals were flecked with tiny crimson blotches, looking fancifully like droplets of spilled blood.
It was a moving sight that immediately brought my thoughts to three incredibly brave men from our family histories: One Canadian, Cam’s dad, who served steadfastly in the army; and two Brits, my own dear dad, who weathered the open seas with the navy; and my granddad, an RAF pilot whose story ended abruptly with a cold, devastating telegram reading Missing, presumed dead. This poem is a heartfelt tribute to them, my attempt to capture the quiet, enduring space they will always occupy in our hearts.
A Fierce, Quiet Honour
The final white petals hold the frost,
flecked with tiny drops of sudden crimson
like ink of ancient blood spilling across the cold.
The job is jobbed, the camera lens clicked,
and a solitary lapel poppy rests its heavy velvet red
against the fading bloom at winter’s doorstep.
Three names sit quietly in the freezing air,
bound by a silence louder than the guns.
One marched the heavy, giving earth,
boots pressed into fields far from home,
carrying the quiet strength of the Canadian line,
steadfast through the mud and the clearing.
One watched the horizon line rise and fall,
cradled by the vast, unforgiving grey of the British sea,
where the salt spray stung like memory
and the depths held the weight of an empire’s heart.
And one climbed into the fragile blue,
swallowed by the clouds and the roar of the RAF,
until the sky went entirely quiet.
A single telegram, a few typed words—
missing, presumed dead—
left to freeze on a kitchen table,
turning a young wife’s world as cold as ice.
The red stains the white rose today,
not with defeat, but with a fierce, quiet honour.
They haven’t left, they stay, loving us,
secure in our memories, deep in our hearts,
forever watching from the clear, open air above.
Leave a Reply