Proud children tilt their blackened heads,
limbs rustled by the breeze
as sunlight dapples on red hems
of petticoats, to their knees.
Great laughter gurgles in the fields,
erupting from their game
and children all alike recall
the day; when the rains came.
Sweet serum swelled their thirsty mouths
and bathed their flesh with life,
it left their cheeks a rosy red,
enhanced by sacrifice.
If there was any pain to feel,
the children knew it not;
they had no understanding of clash, scrape. Thunk.
With resounding clash, the soldiers met;
feet stumbled on the ground.
An oily grime ran down sleek flesh
as their weapons made that sound.
But with a scrape, the balance changed,
that staggered edge of reason against his throat,
as white and stark as the - other man
whose heart he re-arranged.
Thunk brought the rains.
Spawned from such an aftermath,
the tainted beauty grows:
young children living, unaware
to whom their lives are owed.
Innocence and beauty here
was nourished by man's wars
where soldiers lost their everything
to serve their country's cause.
May their sacrifice one day
bring peace to Poppy Fields.
