Red petals sway in golden corn,
A flower stands there all alone,
Grown from seeds blown by the wind,
No-one knows where it calls home.
The sun and rain have work to do,
As all the seeds begin to grow,
Why are we here? They ask themselves,
A purpose yet – they do not know.
A seed grew by a soldier,
As he lay dead upon the ground,
By the flower lay a picture,
On the day that he was found.
His true love’s name was poppy,
With red hair her face was framed,
Both were laid upon his chest,
The flower then was named.
Throughout all the passing years,
This simple flower is hailed with pride,
In remembrance of the fallen ones,
A wreath of red is lain aside.
And as time passes once a year,
On the eleventh of November,
A poppy crowns lapels of all,
To help us to remember.