Grey wisps of hair cross his head

and meet under the brim of firm

material and assurance. He has sprouted,

a lonesome poppy in the blusters

of transitory time from Fall to Winter,

outside a new realm of conflict.

He nods to them with a glistening smile

of decaying teeth, leaving reddened gums

bleeding a quaint charity. Charity remains

a scarce resource on the battlefield, whilst

men and women and children scramble

for goods in aisles - as if their poise behind

him, in waiting, is memories of isles and isles

and isles of turmoil in an old realm of conflict.

The top hat remains empty for a while as communities stumble past, but nods and grins without upturned chins are beacons

for a new leaf among the fallen. Five coins

are the spoils of war but spoilt not

is the top hat and it’s firm and soft brim.