The Poppy Field Poem by Charles Hancock

I read a poem about the field
Where legions of men died
In a war that was worldwide

In the battle, Death took his yield
As his bloody scythe swung
Depriving mothers of their young

Soil and blood congealed
In the battle, many years ago
Where countless poppies do grow

Peaceful now, the land healed
Trenches and craters filled in
Stones visited by next-of-kin

Some graves remain concealed
Families eternally unaware
Of their sons final nightmare