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