PUSHING THE BORDERS

The fields of Flanders wear a crimson shroud,
Where fallen soldiers sleep in rows of clay,
Yet nature plays a strange, selective hand,
Amidst the wooden crosses, stained with mould,
A silent change alters the coded seed,
And turns the scarlet tide to unexpected light.

Beneath the Somme's dark sky, a ghost appears,
With petals bleached as white as drifted snow,
Like winter shrouds upon the frozen mud.
It stands apart from all its blushing kin,
A pale phantom in a sea of blood,
That honors fallen men with different grace.

Another stem lifts up a darker cup,
Of deepest plum and bruised obsidian hue,
A velvet shadow drinking in the rain.
It holds the midnight of the trenches deep,
Where others catch the flashing spark of dawn,
A somber mourner on a lonely grave.

And some are dressed in soft, ethereal pink,
Like rising mist above the shattered trees,
Or trimmed with borders made of silver ash.
These rare exceptions break the uniform,
To show that beauty heals a broken land,
And will not bind itself to single forms.

Though crimson coats define the Belgian plain,
The stray variations soothe the lingering pain.

I enjoyed that, I am normally a bit of a cultural desert but that really resonated :)

Splendid, we will have to rename the forum 'Pushing the Bards'.

I was using Google to search for a First World War poem that had white poppies in it.

I think Google may have written this one for me.

As white as drifted snow: really?

Chad

AndyC wrote: ↑Sat Jun 13, 2026 3:02 pm Splendid, we will have to rename the forum 'Pushing the Bards'.

Or, if we are changing our remit to native plants, 'Pushing up Daisies'.

Paul S wrote: ↑Sun Jun 14, 2026 6:32 am

Or, if we are changing our remit to native plants, 'Pushing up Daisies'.

bit too close for comfort that one !!!

It's turned into a poppy u lar thread. :mrgreen:
John