11 November 2012
It was in a bleak November, When the heater was but an ember. We sat on the carpet floor.
It was school at it was raining. All the children they were straining To go outside; complaining, Except for timid Gracey Moore.
I was monitor for the day And it was time to go and play At home, for it was Friday, All the kids happy, I'm sure.
Except for quiet Gracey Moore.
They called her 'little Grace.' I saw it on her face As a tear left it's trace, Whilst she sat and nothing more.
I saw her paper poppy; Broken, torn and floppy, Her blouse ever so soppy From the tears that she bore.
All the other kids ignored her, For why should they try to order Her chaotic thoughts? They border Her out of their galore.
I approached the little girl, And a furtive glance she hurled, Into herself she curled Poor little Gracey Moore.
I knew why she was sad: Her caring, loving dad Had gone to war and not come back, And no hope his letters bore.
As I knelt before the child I greeted her and smiled, But she would not be beguiled Into unfurling from her core.
From my chest I took my token, The red paper all but broken, And I held it, my palm wide open, Offered out to Gracey Moore.
For a moment she did ponder, Then her hand emerged from under Her cardigan and fumbled With the poppy that I bore.
'Little Grace' flashed me a grin And a flame she lit within My soul, and burnt all sin, Just as swung wide the classroom door.
And in came her kindly mother Along with parents of every other Child in the room around her, And they leaped up from the floor.
Every person bore the flower, On this day so very dour When we remember all the power That was put into the War.
And as Grace dried her eyes And hugged her mother's sides, I could only hope that I Would see her father tread this floor.
Poppies For Grace • Opuss № I