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andrew-benniePoems
In these fields is where the red poppy grows No seeds were used It came from all the blood we did sow Why else would the poppy be coloured red The colour came from the blood of the dead As they lay in Flanders field With death all around The cannon fire was the only sound They each looked as if they were fast asleep Lying there bodies all twisted in a heap This lovely ground that once was green Now oozes red with all the dead to be seen The stretcher bearers running doing their best Trying hard to find the living amid this mess They are dodging the bullets that are flying around Only stopping to collect the living crying on the ground The day will come when we return To pay homage to our dead Amid the poppies on Flanders field Flaming and burning so red poetry by Andrew Bennie
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Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 6:47 AM UTC
THE POPPY
In these fields is where the red poppy grows No seeds were used It came from all the blood we did sow Why else would the poppy be coloured red The colour came from the blood of the dead As they lay in Flanders field With death all around The cannon fire was the only sound They each looked as if they were fast asleep Lying there bodies all twisted in a heap This lovely ground that once was green Now oozes red with all the dead to be seen The stretcher bearers running doing their best Trying hard to find the living amid this mess They are dodging the bullets that are flying around Only stopping to collect the living crying on the ground The day will come when we return To pay homage to our dead Amid the poppies on Flanders field Flaming and burning so red poetry by Andrew Bennie
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andrew-bennie
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 6:47 AM UTC
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