The black of the Raven’s feather <br />Cuts the lily white of her skin <br />Like a blade <br /> <br />A single drop of blood <br />Splashes down onto the petals <br />Of the poppy <br /> <br />A striking meadow <br />Splashed with blood red flowers <br />Saddened with the memories <br />Of the fallen <br /> <br />1914 to 1919 <br />Countless, pointless deaths of millions <br />Of mere boys <br />The poppies now mourn <br /> <br />The black of the Raven’s feather <br />Cuts the icy blue tears in her heart <br />Like a bayonet <br /> <br />Far off into the distance <br />A solitary skylark calls <br />She places the feather down on her lover’s grave <br />And continues on her way <br />Across the forever-bleeding poppy fields <br />Of The Somme<br /><br />Maurice Rowlands<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blood-red-poppies-3/
