Above the fields, poppies grow;
Beneath, the soldiers, row on row,
All as one, a sea of red
Each soldier before, had bled.
As the poppies, sway and shrug,
In the ground, before, churned and dug.
From destruction, each poppy thrives,
A token to each of the soldiers’ lives.
Laying here, silent and still,
War won: soldiers nil.
Dulce Et Decorum Est- Each soul now gets, its deserved rest.
Samantha Brown, Ryedale School
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