As red as the blood spilt on battlefields,
The poppy It’s tale to tell,
Of the young ones lying so far from home,
Freed now from their living hell.
There’s no marching feet and wheelchair spin,
The Cenotaph to salute,
But we’ll remember in our hearts,
Those other marching boots.
So many young ones in their youthful zest,
Signed with their crosses on the line,
Who would’ve known they’d die, tied to a post,
Their light extinguished, no more to shine.
Some lie secretly underground,
The tunnel their muddied resting place,
After the walls crumbled into dust,
And they were claimed by Mother Earth’s embrace.
We remember the young who served on land, sea and sky
For their country to retain its pride,
But, through their role in our narrative,
Too many of them paid the price.
The poppy fields of no man’s land,
Hold testament to the stories,
Of comradeship and unbroken bonds,
In our country’s pursuit of glory.
Yes, we remember their sacrifice
And, in our ongoing plight,
We turn to the young once again,
To help us to fight this fight.
But the young will survive this time,
And, when they do,
There will be poppies abounding,
And life will renew.
Shirley Gibson 28.10.2020