Poem: "11/11: For the Poppies"

I wrote this poem on being reminded that it was Remembrance Day/Veterans Day. Comments are always appreciated.

11/11: For the Poppies:

Let the fields be red,
let the last few leaves
drift from their boughs
over the rows of poppies
in the chill, soft wind.
Let the fields be red,
and let the scarlet blooms
call out, receptacles
for voices lost in the asphodel,
drifting by Lethe's shore
with heavy eyes.
Let the fields be red,
let the wind cause the church's bells to ring
in a perpetual Kyrie.

In the roots, in the stiffening soil,
grow long plumes of soul-smoke,
the saving grace that the dark lord offers
as he sits on his obsidian throne.
Poppy after poppy lets the fumes leak down
as spirits in uniform inhale, half-asleep,
perpetually at-ease. The spirits sigh,
with recollections drifting here and there
round the outline of the old barracks.
How nice it is to be out of the trenches!
How soon will we get back to Britain,
till we touch Ontario's blue waters,
see the old farm and cornfields again?
The man on the obsidian throne
sighs silently and holds his wife's hand.

For the poppies and each red blossom
Oremus
For the bones at Verdun, at the Somme
Oremus
For the half-dead, for those not granted entry to Hades' court
Oremus et Kyrie eleison

Let the red priests, custodians of memory,
bring forth their thuribles and incense.
Let the bread and the wine taste of poppies,
Let the red leaves drift into the silent red-tinged river,
Sink, and fall to the asphodel barracks,
Missives from home, missives from the old farmhouse,
Letters and postcards from Ontario and London,
Remembrances for those whose memory
Was blown to bits in fields of poppies.

Between the rows of poppies,
Beyond the roots,
Beyond the leaves and the red-tinged river
Stands the lone soldier,
see-through, transparent,
smiling back over the years,
stopping to stoop,
smelling the poppies.