A royal purple sent your head reeling.
It is the colour of spiritual healing.
You knelt and with the colour were knighted.
Arose with a blue burden alighted.
There is a sadness that surrounds
and then a laughter find abounds.
The circular circus does its rounds.
We are ring masters when not sad clowns.
Thus it was the young Apollo
on an heroic-venture to war would go,
to see damn action on the front-line.
But with an island-girl spent his time.
The poet Brooke and she in flowery-wreaths.
A fever took his and other warriors' lives.
One of many-million wartime dead.
Soldiers now with wreaths of poppies red.
Black is the old-colour of peace
and we hear there's peace in death.
But is death black or is it white?
And, like a ghost, could it go without rest?
Where there's a death there is a will,
and where a will there's ever a way
to turn up like a vulture in black
and pretend you are not there to prey.