The centre black
As black as death
Looming inevitably over quarter-spent lives
Like storm clouds over mountains.
The petals red
As red as blood
Spilled too many times over foreign land
From innocent boys
Loving not those they defend
Hating not those they attack.
The stem is green
As green as peace
A neutral, now forgotten word
A rumour
Starting off slowly, spreading
Like ripples upon a pond
Stretching slender and straight
Unbending, like friendship
Until cut down again
Through hate or spite or stupidity
Only to rise again
More steadfast than before.

Fire 16; Zoe Froggatt (written at age 11)