The Poppy - A weed in all it's Glory

Poem from tonights Remembrance event

I am a bastard.
The illegitimate son of your battlefields churn.
I am a displaced vagrant
Whose home is anywhere but nowhere
A roadside Verge, a cornfields garland.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row

I am a Lord
Who ties a million Afgahan farmers to their fields.
Am I religion?
The peoples opiate; dulling, stilling, numbing,
Binding and escaping, luring away from freedoms grasp.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row
That mark our place and in the sky
The Larks, still bravely singing, fly

I am a warriors head
Bloody, Bowed with glory crowned.
I am the offering to death, a symbol
Of forgetfulness to aid you
In your selective remembrance fest.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row
That mark our place and in the sky
The Larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
We are the dead.

I am your lovers kiss,
Your loyalty, faithfulness, inspiration missed.
I am your offering O Goddess
Demeter of fertility and Diana of the hunt.
Give me your life, your prize and death.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row
That mark our place and in the sky
The Larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved and were loved and now we lie.

I am your eternal sleep
Embossed upon your aged churches seat.
I am your temporary rest
Forget, remember, catch your breath.
Numb or still I am Christ your promise kept.

We are the dead and shall not sleep though poppies grow.

c Paul Cracknell 2009, after John Mcrae