'The Last Poppy' by Jackie Hales

The solitary poppy waved its scarlet head in the February breeze, searching for companions like a guest arriving too early for the party. Up here on the field, its world was once safe, but now confusion reigned in the soil below. 

“Is it time?” said the dandelions to the buttercups. 

“Is it time?” the birds screeched on the trees.

None were sure, now, when they should force their way into the air. February should be cloaking them in soft white snow, but the sun grinned through wispy clouds and the poppy was too keen.

Once, there had been a season for all things. Man had labelled them long ago – Spring was time to awake to the promise of sunshine and warmth, after a long rest in the winter’s cruel cold. April brought showers to help them grow.  Summer was gentle here, not like the searing heat of the desert. Autumn was when the trees dropped their energy-sapping leaves, retreating to the safety of their inner selves. 

The drought had come, creeping across the land like some midnight thief, stealing the water to feed their roots. Withered stems gave the lie to the notion of the old familiar round. Here, they had cursed the rain, and the sun had heard them, revelling in its triumph. They would pay the price, as the earth warmed and the seas swallowed the ice. They said the reservoirs were empty, drowned villages surfacing like menacing ghosts to haunt protesters who once mourned their disappearance. 

The poppy hung its head, too heavy now. Footsteps shook the ground, and it felt the rip of the stalk from its base.

“Oh, Poppy,” said a gentle voice. “So beautiful. I’ll take you home, collect your seed. There will be more of you soon. You have given me hope.”