When I visited the poppies at the Tower of London I listened to a 45(ish) woman telling her 6 children that it was all a story that people told that she did not believe that 888,245 people had died it wasnt possible. An elderly gentleman sitting on a stone put her right! It led to me writing this poem. Poppies Poppies spill down the side of a tall tower, Our memories stir, rise and hold such power We stand there silent in awe; see fields of blood And the poppies spray down and form a flood. How many understand the price that was paid? Millions went; over eight hundred thousand stayed. On land and sea battles raged, planes were in the air, War waged in wet and mud, in hope and in despair, In ‘no man’s land’ they were attacked with deadly gas, Machine guns mowed them down, they died en mass. How many understand the price that was paid? Millions went; over eight hundred thousand stayed. The people stand enraptured, stand and stare, At the pretty poppies suspended in mid air; Each represents shattered bone and torn flesh And those who died snared on barbed wire’s mesh. How many understand the price that was paid? Millions went; over eight hundred thousand stayed.
Posted on: Thu, 13 Nov 2014 03:50:24 +0000
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