I CAN ONLY STAND AND STARE
AT POPPY’S GROWING EVERYWHERE
A MASS OF RED & BRILLIANT HUE
ON THEIR OWN A FIELD THE POPPIES GREW

NO FRIENDLY NEIGHBOUR GREW CLOSE BY
BUT ALONE THEY STAND ‘NEATH A BRIGHT BLUE SKY
THE FIELD A FLAMING MASS OF RED
AS EACH POPPY TURNS TO BOW ITS HEAD

OTHER FLOWERS HAVE FRIENDS NEAR BY
WITH WHICH TO LAUGH PERHAPS TO CRY
BUT NOT THE POPPY SHE STANDS ALONE
LIKE A QUEEN ON A COLD IMPERSONAL THRONE

AS I GAZE ONCE MORE ON THIS BRILLIANT ARRAY
I CAN ONLY THINK OF THE DAY
WHEN WITH GREAT PRIDE THEIR PETALS FALL
ON THE BOWED HEADS OF EACH MAN IN THE ALBERT HALL