In quiet fields where soft winds roam, we stand

And feel the breath of those who marched before.

Their names drift through the grass like distant sand

And settle in our hearts forevermore.

We promise them our memory will stay

As still as dawn that trembles into day.

The poppies rise in gentle crimson light,

Their petals catch the turning of the sun.

They glow as if they gathered up the night

Then traded it for hope when morning won.

So when their red blooms stir beneath the sky,

We look, we breathe, we remember why.

JH