Chris Matthews.

Poppy Strewn Fields. 

 

War is turmoil; over a blood red sea,

Now stand with poppies to remember me.

Lest we forget, those who’ve died,

Boys, the men, the nights I’ve cried.

 

Blown down, twisted; flesh from bone,

In Flanders fields, laid so prone.

When brave men went to war that day,

Waived goodbye, to their fiancé.

 

Little did they know, most would be caught,

By death’s dark calling; this war they fought.

From trenches they marched, into the fog,

Caught up on barb-wire, trapped by the bog.

 

Ears bombarded as bullets fly by,

Twisted by the echoes, a friend’s last sigh.

Never retreat into the sun,

One last stand, then fell by a gun.

 

Pictures; a letter, is dropped at our door,

This soldier never returned from his tour.

One day I’ll see your poppy strewn fields,

No more wars, for guns and swords to wield.

 

©Chris Matthews.