Poppy by Paul Griffiths

From those muddy trenches at the Somme.
Under hail of bullet and falling bomb.
Brave men laughed, whilst brave men cried.
In senseless slaughter, so many died.

Whistle blows, men over top.
Machine gun fire, mows down the the lot.
Falling face down in that mud.
Dying for the greater good.

The Grim Reaper wields his trusty scythe.
As tears roll from his hollowed eyes.
Death on this scale is such a task.
He cannot see past the Mustard gas.

Across the fields of Flanders he stumbles round.
As bodies bleed into the blood soaked group.
He is appalled at man’s misdeeds.
From his pocket he scatters sorrows seeds.

In an instant, from that mud.
A flower grows as red as blood.
For every man who died that day.
A remembrance of War and the price they pay.

A hundred years have past, since that day.
We wear that flower, in our respect we pay.
But we have not learnt, I don’t think we can.
War seems to be ingrained in man.

Just obeying orders, young Soldier man
Is dying in a poppy field in Afghanistan.
I want to believe that it is true.
These Soldiers are willing to die for me and you.

But of late I am not so sure.
They seem to dying in someone else’s war.
But I wear the Poppy in respect with pride.
For the Fallen soldiers who have died.    R.I.P