Thursday, 25 May 2017

A poem by Robert Ford


Down the long band of sunlit lane from where I
was allegedly a boy, a small universe of poppies
is making a miracle of the untidy fields behind
the compressor factory’s vermilion brick ruins,
given up on years ago by a defeated farmer.

The side-tracked faithful come to give thanks,
arriving in their cars on listless July evenings,
and parking themselves in any available niche.
Smart-phones deployed, they pump the images
like warm blood onto Facebook and Instagram,

then head on home, unaware that poppies were
God’s final flourish, as she emptied out the red tins
and brushed off the dust from Her palette, before
She packed and stowed it all away, folded
the easel and returned quietly to Her day job.

Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Homestead Review and Ink, Sweat and Tears. More of his work can be found at

1 comment:

  1. A gorgeous poem from one of my favourite poets