Please don’t pick the flowers

to lie upon  my tomb

to wither in the summer sun,

for ice to freeze their  bloom.

Don’t fashion wreaths of roses,

nor lillies for a spray.

Leave me only clover, coltsfoot

Cyprepedium  Reginae.

Freshly cut carnation heads

adorn men’s morning suits

but leave them safe within the earth

and let them keep their roots.

 For all young girls are pretty flowers

oft’ thirsty in a vase.

Don’t place them on a mantle piece

and think they’re solely yours.

How thoughtlessly they have been picked

and shunned when colours faded,

uprooted from their summer beds

to die neglected, jaded.

It’s true young men are National assets,

pawns in a foreign cause.

Sent in glory, returned ‘neath flags,

smuggled through ungracious doors.

The fresh faced lad of seventeen

with young head  barely open,

packed, delivered on demand

to fall dismembered, broken.

In Flanders fields he was cut down

and lies were poppies grow.

Each ruby silken opening

a bloodshed long ago.

The Somme in winter stole fresh men

turned rose cheeked faces grey

wallowing through pitted trench

while beauty walked away.

Please don’t pick the innocent

and send them to their doom.

..Of men and girls, such priceless flow’rs

whose youth is forfeit soon.