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