The poppies blow in the crimson fields,
Symbols of death as my memory yields,
The screams of long buried agony,
Drowned out by the scarce larks symphony,
Here, something cold is in the air,
It makes tourists want to stop and stare,
The poppies lace the unmarked graves,
Making voices climb to weaker octaves,
As they mourn, as they remember,
Flanders fields poppies in September.

Why are they selling poppies?
To remember the course of history,
Why are they selling poppies?
To honour those lost in the army,
But why are they selling poppies?
I know it’s sad to see.
So why are they selling poppies?
The men who died in the army,
Why are they selling poppies?
The men who died in our community.

The black centre is the grief,
The grief beyond belief,
The mothers who lost their sons,
The brother no longer a brother,

And this is why every year we remember,
Those who died in the Great War,
Who didn’t know what the trenches had in store,
So in Flanders fields the poppies blow,
A reminder to lost souls as they grow.