White crosses cover the fields,
Like purest snow.
Boys, many too young
To have sinned,
Cut down
In the fights of their elders.
Blood red poppies
Splattered across the field;
Hollow promises
Never to forget;
Never to repeat.
Silent fields of silent crosses,
Where the dead lie mute;
Their pleas from untimely graves
Drowned out by bellicose,
Beligerent bombast.
Leaders, wrapped in safety,
Rally their followers
Back into the field of death.
Promising the world;
Neglecting the promise
Of a small patch of earth
And another poppy.
READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD