Remembering the Gardener

I thought of you again today

As I passed poppies on my way.
The little breeze taught them to dance
And I stood watching in a trance.
 
They never were your preferred bloom,
And yet, you always made them room;
Just one small corner of the bed,
Washed in yellow, orange and red.
 
You planted once, yet back they grew,
Until they’d spread the whole bed through.
And, though you fussed, you left them there,
Nurturing them with tender care.
 
Though now their bed is lost in grass
And grass is your bed too, alas,
I still think of you when I pass
The wind-blown poppies, bright as brass.