Their branches proud above the town

like men in rank, their feet in mud,

skyward facing they can't look down

their roots fixed in this land of blood.

 

And onward, over fields and seas

men wrenched their hearts too far from home,

mere saplings who would not make trees

but from whose seed a nation's grown.

 

Across the green, the cenotaph

its lonely stone, rain-soaked and grey

like bone strewn in the aftermath

of one more wasteful bloody day.

 

And still the poplars stoic stand

to weave their roots in ancient soil.

As did those who left their land

that we may live through their dark toil.

 

https://wolfgarwords.com/2024/10/24/poplars-in-november/