The Poppy Fields of France

The fields are full of poppies; my heart bleeds

Deep in my field of dreams, in my sad soul,

They stretch on and on. Far away

I see wooden crosses of men and boys

Slain on fields of green, turned poppy red

With blood of the ordered man.

The stem of the delicate flower

Is strong, as the obedient soldier

It sways in the breeze, persisting.

Can you hear the cry of the dead?

Listen! The scream of the living

Tells of the greatness of survival

The slaughter of death.

Of the longing to be home

To see in the fields, the poppies

Growing wild and free.


(C) 2014 Sheighle Birdthistle (The Toga and The Rose)