Poppies Poem by Steve Cooke

Apt is this symbol of remembered war
As we start to forget what was fought for:
The red bloom, not white, is the chosen sign,
An odd choice to promote 'Peace in our time',
But peace needs no reminders in these days
Where conflict and war are 'a world away'.
No, red is the colour of all that blood
Poured out like wine, mixed into Flander's mud.
Red were the guts of the lads, still fresh faced,
That, for freedom, spilled in some foreign place.
Red is the rage you should feel in your soul
That their sacrifice was needed all.
Red should be the haze upon our vision
When excuses for evil are given.
Red are our hearts beating with a proud glee
Remembering those that fought tyranny.
But remember too those lives then taken
Forced into serving regime forsaken.
Their lives too cut short too young and wasted
Leaving whole countries devastated.
All that died were the victims of that war
And those that survived suffer with what they saw:
Having their friends covered in that thick red;
Where once a helmet, a hole now instead.
Not just on ours though but on both sides
Were too many tears of tragedy cried.
So red are our insides, and red is theirs too,
They bleed red when cut just as you do
So let's not forget with that poppy's hue:
Your 'enemies' are, inside, just like you.