Poppies and Poems
Two Minutes Silence
Scarlet poppies (popaver rhoeas) grow naturally in
conditions of disturbed earth throughout Western Europe. The destruction
brought by the Napoleonic wars of the early 19th Century transformed bare
land into fields of blood red poppies, growing around the bodies of the
In late 1914, the fields of Northern France and Flanders were once again
ripped open as the First World War raged through Europe's heart.
The significance of the poppy as a lasting memorial symbol to the fallen was
realised by the Canadian surgeon John McCrae in his poem In Flanders Fields.
The poppy came to represent the immeasurable sacrifice made by his comrades
and quickly became a lasting memorial to those who died in the First World
War and later conflicts
Outside a dressing station near Ypres in 1915, John McCrae, a surgeon in the
Canadian Army, wrote of the scenes around him. Dissatisfied, he tore the
poem from his notebook and returned to his duties. A fellow officer
discovered the poem in the mud and sent a copy to the press. Recited in
Remembrance services throughout the world, this is one of the most memorable
and moving poems of the Great War. John McCrae died in 1918
by Major John McCrae
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
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
COUNTRY AT WAR
by ROBERT GRAVES
And what of home---how goes it, boys,
While we die here in stench and noise?
'The hill stands up and hedges wind
Over the crest and drop behind;
Here swallows dip and wild things go
On peaceful errands to and fro
Across the sloping meadow floor,
And make no guess at blasting war.
In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder
Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder,
And shoot again. Meadows yet show
Alternate white of drifted snow
And daisies. Children play at shop,
Warm days, on the flat boulder-top,
With wildflower coinage, and the wares
Are bits of glass and unripe pears.
Crows perch upon the backs of sheep,
The wheat goes yellow: women reap,
Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond,
Flutter the hedge and fly beyond.
So the first things of nature run,
And stand not still for any one,
Contemptuous of the distant cry
Wherewith you harrow earth and sky
And high French clouds, praying to be
Back, back in peace beyond the sea,
Where nature with accustomed round
Sweeps and garnishes the ground
With kindly beauty, warm or cold---
Alternate seasons never old:
Heathen, how furiously you rage,
Cursing this blood and brimstone age,
How furiously against your will
You kill and kill again, and kill:
All thought of peace behind you cast,
Till like small boys with fear aghast,
Each cries for God to understand,
"I could not help it, it was my hand."'