POPPIES..........

When you buy your poppy this year, remember this poem, which is presumed to be anonymous but, in its correct form, was written by John F.Willcocks and was found among his paperwork in 2004. He scarcely knew his father, as he was only 9 months old when his father died as a result of being gassed on The Somme.

POPPIES

Why are they selling poppies, mother? Selling poppies in town today?
The poppy, my child, is the flower of love for the men, who marched away.
Why did they choose a poppy, mother? Why not a beautiful rose?
Because, my child, men fought and died in the fields, where the poppy grows.
But why is the poppy so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child, the blood that our soldiers shed.
The heart of the poppy is black mother. Why does it have to be black?
Black is the symbol of grief, my child, for the men, who never came back.
But why, mother dear, are you crying so? Your tears are like winter rain.
My tears are my fears for you, my child, for the world is forgetting again.

H/T DML