In Flanders Fields Poem by Edward Clapham

In Flanders fields the poppies grow;
Their roots reach down to twine amongst the bones,
The mouldering bones.

Each skull in grinning disbelief voices
Its eternal question, for what? And no answer comes,
No answer comes.

There are no lungs to find;
Long rotted from within, from gasping breaths of gas,
From choking gas.

No heroes these, but common men
Who selfless thought to serve, to do the right thing,
Unquestioned right thing.

Their souls now wait deep underground;
Deep amongst the rusting, shattered fragments of twisting Death,
Of youthful Death.

Only the Sun kissed faces red;
That wave upon the land above, serve to remind,
Ever remind us.

In Flanders fields the poppies grow.