Poppies Fall

My father fought in the First World War, in the trenches. He died aged seventy, weakened by being gassed during that great war.
This poem is dedicated to all those who are, or who have been affected by any war, one hundred years ago or today.



The Poppies Fall

Poppies fall
As men fell,
What stories tall
Far fields can tell
Of battle plans.

Poppies grow
As they grew,
Memories show
They are not few
History spans

Ninety years.

Poppies sway
Amongst corn.
Where our men lay
Blasted and torn,
Now they sleep deep.

Poppies wield
Dying embers
Of battlefield,
So remembers,
We stand and weep

Bitter tears.

Poppies worn
Wear with pride,
For lives not born,
For all that died
On earth blood drenched.

Poppies red
Stir our minds,
Represent dead.
Sordid truth blinds
Those entrenched.

Fuels fears.

Poppies rage
No waking,
Still war we wage
Thirst not slaking
Again we forget.

Poppies bud
Born anew,
Rise from the mud
For all to view
Hope we beget

Disappears.

For we stand crying
They are still dying.
And beneath the pall
The poppies fall.