Poppy Field - John Creed

Red are the poppies that remember the dead,
Cold are the gravestones that hide them.
Deadly are shells, flying overhead,
Death is the word that defines them.

Cream of the crop are sent to war,
Broken are the minds that return.
Death appears at a raven’s caw.
Red are the flames that burn.

Fields of mud, fields of blood,
War’s face looms its ghastly head.
Fields of stone, fields of bone,
Countless are the tolls of the dead.

Heroes will rise and heroes will fall,
The corpses will slowly grow rotten.
They kept on going through it all,
But in time their tombs are forgotten.

If I should die, think only this of me…
That it was not through lack of endeavour.
In time, the tombs will wear away,
But the names are remembered forever.