The Roses, by James Manlow

As though we had returned, flowers
were strewn beneath our marching feet.
It seemed the trees had bent their boughs
to rain their adulation on the street.
Red roses all the way through France,
the heart-red roses of last chance.

In Paris, girls hung perfumed wreaths
around our necks; some gave a kiss,
the way we’d used to dream a girl might kiss
a lover when at last he leaves.
Red roses all the way through France,
the lip-red roses of last chance.

In Flanders, waist-deep in the mire
death rose to bath our brothers in, we knelt
in silence, watching friends on fire
and could not find a word for what we felt.
Red roses all the way through France,
the blood-red roses of last chance.

O children of our children’s children,
remember us; do not forget
what must be borne and then forgotten
in that war you have not started yet.
Red roses all the way through France.
The poppy-red roses of last chance.


James Manlow
Poet Laureate for Bournemouth