Poppies

Tales have been writ of the Old World rivers flowing
Silver and jade and bronze, past tower and tree.
But tonight I dream of a wild New Zealand headland,
Of a million poppies, shining towards the sea.
Two there were, who planted the deep-hued poppies
Whilst God waxed weary of man and the heart strait-holden.
Two shall awake in the stainless saffron mornings
To see the surge of their banner, scarlet and golden.
Never a foot shall pass by the crags that hide them,
Never a sail to their magic shores draw nigh
And the serf of Life gaze full on the shining poppies
But his youth shall tremble again, and his mouth grow dry.
Poppies and love … the two shall cover at last
These whom the sun in Heaven might not despise,
Who came alone, from a mean and timorous world,
To bare the shield of splendour before their eyes.