We talked of fields where poppies flew
where blood had seeped into the soil,
where once was ash now flowers grew,
where once were trenches grass was green,
and blackbirds sang where poppies flew,
and in the breeze perfumed so sweet
the children played, and all felt new.
But now when kids have aged and died
In scent of gunsmoke we once knew,
we talk of honor and revenge
of winning fields where poppies flew.
For Gillena at toads I write the fold, I have approached this in a similar way as a rondeau, and of course inspired by Flander’s field.
April 28, 2018