Poppy, oh poppy abundant and flowing
across all the fields you're still constantly growing.
As your seeds blow and find their own bed,
they're reminding us of the most glorious dead.
Glorious in the contribution they made.
Glorious for the price that they paid.
Glorious for fighting for what they believed.
Glorious for the terrors and hell they received.
Standing their ground in the eye of the storm.
Standing their ground whilst receiving the swarm.
Standing their ground in the mud and the vile
Standing their ground through the horrors and toil.
The death and the blood flowing like a river.
Like the fields of the poppies the breeze does now shiver.
The seeds carry on into a new time,
an horizon of red the future will entwine.
Poppy, oh poppy so winding and red,
reminding most deftly of our glorious dead.
You are constantly sowing your own little seed
as those who had fought did for those who were freed.
Although many thousands of lives they have gone
your legacy will like that small seed go on.
Although now in history and most never met
you can take it for granted we shall never forget.