The black of the Raven’s feather
Cuts the lily white of her skin
Like a blade

A single drop of blood
Splashes down onto the petals
Of the poppy

A striking meadow
Splashed with blood red flowers
Saddened with the memories
Of the fallen

1914 to 1919
Countless, pointless deaths of millions
Of mere boys
The poppies now mourn

The black of the Raven’s feather
Cuts the icy blue tears in her heart
Like a bayonet

Far off into the distance
A solitary skylark calls
She places the feather down on her lover’s grave
And continues on her way
Across the forever-bleeding poppy fields
Of The Somme

Maurice Rowlands

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blood-red-poppies-3/