Here’s a poem that was inspired by a book of poems by the World War One poets.
Blood Red Poppies Grow in This Field
Blood red poppies grow in this field.
Delicate arched stems strain to control
bright lamps bobbing as if on elastic.
Day closes and hanging their heads
they fold themselves in like old men
made weary by the passing years.
Morning calls them to arms.
Tissue petals stand attentive to
the sound of bugles only they hear.
Too quickly their young crowns fall
leaving them bare headed save a cluster
of seeds soon buried in the earth,
a parting gift to remind us next year
that blood red poppies grow in this field.