Poetry

Poppies of blood stain the earthan floor,
In memory of thoes that are no more,
Thousands of poppies all so red,
One for each person that is now dead,
War-red Poppies line the ground,
All is quiet; Not a sound,
They deserve to live again,
Through these tiny Poppies they live,
And so in this month,
We give a blood red Poppie,
And through this field we will always rember.

By Adam Redfern