, , , , , , , , ,


War’s just like scarlet poppies

For most of it is red;

With a darkness at the centre

Like black holes in the dead.

And scarlet seems to say so much

As it speaks of honour and pride,

But it kind of lost its reverie

With a bayonet deep inside.


Yes we saw them off so proudly

And never a word was said

Of the futility of its purpose

Or the pain to which it led.

And days dribbled into weeks and months

As the drizzle drenched the fields,

And our hearts sank in the quagmire

At what the papers had revealed.


Well the end came at eleven:

Of hour and month and day,

And the silenced guns were singing

Of the victory of the brave.

And we cheered our leaders’ wisdom,

And we hailed our own lads home.

There were medals for survivors, but

Scarlet ribbons for the dead alone.