BLOOD RED POPPIES
Poppies, poppies, as far as can be seen,
Growing by the wayside or in a foreign field,
Blood red and growing in masses wild,
Where many a soldiers fate was sealed.
Small and fragile like someone’s life,
Growing together in a haze of red,
In many a field where battle once raged,
They’re a symbol of the precious dead.
As if knowing for what they stand,
They spread their carpet on the ground,
A sea of red as far as can be seen,
On battlefields especially found.
Simple petals of brightest hue,
Black centre respects the dead,
Blood red petals above and below,
No joy in them but sorrow instead.
The poppies blow in Flanders field,
McCrae’s poem does solemnly tell,
And we wear those poppies yearly,
Marking the lives of those who fell.
Many battles beyond Flanders too,
The poppy represents those we lost,
In foreign lands or here at home,
The poppy marks the ultimate cost
A bright red poppy is a sign to remember,
We wear them each year with pride,
Scarlet petals we all know so well,
Worn in honour of those who died.
Written by Will Roe 14th November 2022