Now Poppies Grow
Here, once, a soldier died in stalemate slow,
now where he fell, bright poppies grow.
Once horror reigned and death was rife,
Missing comrades haunted soldier’s life.
The shells, the noise, the battle throng,
a whistle foretold sleep eternal long;
For, over the top, he rejoined dead friends,
In that sweet peace which never ends.
Eighteen or twenty, maybe less,
soldier’s age of death, upon that crest,
a wasteful loss, a generation flown –
There, lie many, still Unknown.
A chilling hush fills the mourning air,
they rest here, safe, without age or care,
beneath long grass, under air so still,
Peace hides their graves, in trench, on hill.
The most worthy monument? A poppied field,
to the carnage? The Iron Harvest yield,
but from where the birds in war have flown,
The ghosts of Ypres and Somme live on…
Thanks to B&Q for supporting the distribution of poppy seeds with the Royal British Legion.
No thanks to the Heritage Lottery fund who prefer to fund records of conscientious objectors or German immigrants in WW1. Minority issues are important, but the Centenary focus must remain the men who served, fought and died for both sides in the Great War.