The Red Poppy

The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month – I stood as still as I could my head bowed in respect for those who had given their lives. Lest we forget…

Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions will never lie to you.  
~ Roger Ebert

A trumpet signaled the end of those two minutes. Our parade had stopped and now we were starting to march again; our feet keeping up with the thud of the drum. A flicker of light had caught my eye averting my gaze away from the rest of the band: The light reflection of a silver watch on the wrist of the man dressed in black. All black - except for his red poppy.

The man unnerved me. Maybe it was the way he was walking: with his back stooped that way, had he been injured in war? Or maybe it was the pain in his eyes. His poppy stood out. It made me think of the real poppies, the ones that had bloomed in the trenches of Flanders all those years ago in the Great War. But we marched on ahead and when I turned around, I no longer saw the hunched man with the pained expression.

Later when the police questioned us, Millie said she saw him too: his deep red poppy, the colour of blood. Nobody saw the sniper. Nobody heard the shot. I can’t help wonder if the sound of the trumpet drowned it out. I guess I will never know.

About the photo: This was a Help for Heroes event in Oxford along Cornmarket Street and the expression on the young particpants' faces due to the audience was absolutely worth capturing on camera. The GAP shopfront proved to be a perfect contrasting background.