WHERE THE RED CORN POPPIES DANCE
Posted: Wed Mar 19, 2014 9:36 am
WHERE THE RED CORN POPPIES DANCE
SUE PEARCE (c) 2014
"Would you like to buy a poppy?” came the kindly, gentle voice
of an old Australian Digger, who then offered me a choice
from a tray of pins and badges held by tendered, gentle hands
as I wondered of our soldiers buried deep on foreign lands.
So I asked the old time digger, who seemed taken by surprise
for he stopped a while..then pondered.. and as moisture filled his eyes
he recalled the loss and bloodshed on the battle fields of France
in a Province known as Flanders, where the red corn poppies dance.
He recalled our gallant heroes as they gathered by the quay
cherished loved ones thoughts embedded as they boarded ships to sea
far away across the ocean to a land on foreign shores
where they joined the bloody battle in a war to end all wars.
Men for weeks instilled in trenches where the air was filled with dread
men who fought the battle bravely, there beside the dying, dead.
men we welcomed home as heroes from that wretched battle ground
men who told of fallen comrades, many who remain...unfound.
He recalled a mother’s heartache when a telegram arrived
and a faith that ceased on hearing that her only son had died
and his grave among the thousands represented by a cross
row on row they stand, reminders of the carnage and the loss.
Then his thoughts turned to the poppy and the symbolism there
and I felt the pride and mate-ship of a soldier left to bear
as he gestured to the emblem that he wore in his lapel
a symbol of the fallen and a league named RSL
As the big hand strikes eleven on a mild November day
I'm reminded of the digger and the words he had to say
and my mind begins to wander to a field in Southern France
to a Province known as Flanders, where the red corn poppies dance.
SUE PEARCE (c) 2014
"Would you like to buy a poppy?” came the kindly, gentle voice
of an old Australian Digger, who then offered me a choice
from a tray of pins and badges held by tendered, gentle hands
as I wondered of our soldiers buried deep on foreign lands.
So I asked the old time digger, who seemed taken by surprise
for he stopped a while..then pondered.. and as moisture filled his eyes
he recalled the loss and bloodshed on the battle fields of France
in a Province known as Flanders, where the red corn poppies dance.
He recalled our gallant heroes as they gathered by the quay
cherished loved ones thoughts embedded as they boarded ships to sea
far away across the ocean to a land on foreign shores
where they joined the bloody battle in a war to end all wars.
Men for weeks instilled in trenches where the air was filled with dread
men who fought the battle bravely, there beside the dying, dead.
men we welcomed home as heroes from that wretched battle ground
men who told of fallen comrades, many who remain...unfound.
He recalled a mother’s heartache when a telegram arrived
and a faith that ceased on hearing that her only son had died
and his grave among the thousands represented by a cross
row on row they stand, reminders of the carnage and the loss.
Then his thoughts turned to the poppy and the symbolism there
and I felt the pride and mate-ship of a soldier left to bear
as he gestured to the emblem that he wore in his lapel
a symbol of the fallen and a league named RSL
As the big hand strikes eleven on a mild November day
I'm reminded of the digger and the words he had to say
and my mind begins to wander to a field in Southern France
to a Province known as Flanders, where the red corn poppies dance.