The Fallen Poppy

In my imagination, i am standing there on the hill looking beyond of Gallipolli.
I hear, the parade, children laughing and some even crying and in my mind i
taste the coarse sand in my dry mouth of the Gallipoli beach.
The coat, i am holding was fiven to me by my father before he left to serve his mother country, it just faintly smells of his cologne and for a moment as i touch the brass buttons of the coat i am taken back to a happier time of just us.
The parade finished and i am drawn to whithered poppy on the ground.
It's a reminder of the blood shed of World War 1 and a reminder my dad wasn't coming home.
I have no hope for better days with dad.
Just hos coat,and what we were blessed to have.

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