For a couple of weeks now, I’ve been on my own in displaying this red tag of hope and remembrance when walking down the streets passed African beauty parlours, Guajarati gold shops and Jamaican food joints. Why is that? Don’t people here know about the great war? Don’t they care? Or is the poppy’s Britain not theirs? Maybe it’s just that they don’t find the Great War particularly… You know… Great?
The other day, by a bus stop, a group of wild, tough and happy school girls played about, immersed in themselves, full of cheek and life. A few yards away, another one, all on her own. Same only in uniform. Chubby, pink and with glasses of course. Maybe one day that she will grow into an attractive and popular woman, surrounded by friends, creating envy. Her time was yet to come. But then I saw a one blossoming thing, a reflective poppy, dangling down from a button on her uniform jacket.
Did she want it there? Maybe it was her mum who, come Remembrance day, always made sure to stick one on. Or her dad.
“For great grandad, darling.”
“Time for this one again, princess.”
For a brief moment only, somewhere between Brixton and Croydon on an otherwise insignificant November morning, two poppies crossed paths.
Beautiful