FIELDS OF BLOOD
A perfect summer's day,
Sapphire blue skies
Over fields of emerald green,
Spattered with diamond white blooms
And the ruby of poppies.
Many years before
The fields had been churned
Into a brown morass
By the destructive, unthinking guns.
The morass spattered,
Not by the red of poppies
But by a youthful generation
Torn apart.
The guns had turned the land
Into fields of blood.