In fields where silence softly grows,
The poppy lifts its crimson rose,
A bloom of blood, a breath of flame,
Each petal whispering a name.
They stood where duty drew its line
In desert dust, an ocean brine,
With hearts like anchors, firm and wide,
They bore the storm, they turned the tide.
No trumpet calls can quite convey
The price they paid, the weight they lay,
A life, a love, a final breath,
A vow upheld through war and death.
Yet valour is not forged in gold,
But in the quiet acts of old,
A hand extended, boots that tread
Where angels fear, where hope has fled.
The poppy bends in morning light,
A sentinel for those who fight,
Its scarlet flare, a sacred sign
Of sacrifice, of service fine.
So let them bloom where stories sleep,
Where mothers mourn and children weep,
For every soul who dared to stand
We cradle peace in grateful hands.
‘Where Poppies Bow’
