The Opium Poppy

There is a poppy in the garden
First I've seen in many years.
Ten years ago they left . . .
 Mourning for my love?
Purple ,red , black stamens
As her hair, tall and slim.
 Loved them as her own,
Demanding, intoxicant, as she,
One, just one is here,
Beneath the Wellingtonia,
Hanging  blooms tight closed.
Will they be red or purple?
The stamens will be black
Of that I'm sure  . . . .
As were her eyes and hair.
It called the other night
I did not see, seldom go that far
Thought they never would return.
She lies close by the rose we bred.
Another love, roses and the poppy.
Not the red of Flanders field,
memories  here are purple,
narcotic dreams, memories,
Of years I cannot forget,
gathering round when alone,
to cause me sleep and comfort