Lined up in their pristine liveries,

The regiment of Crocuses stand erect

Perfect in their sun-kissed Rigour

They await the drum and whistle

Which will prelude the attack.


The drumming rain decimates their legion,

Splashing their colours to the ground.

The whistle of the wind takes it’s toll

As more are bent and broken…


There is a pathetic fallacy

About their toil:

The press to raise their strident petals

To the heights…

A vainglorious hope!

Casually dashed by the Mercurial Skies…

Just another pretty young soldier,

Cut down in his prime.

copyright Dale Beck 2018


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