Poppies

Beneath the trees,

The poppies dance in the breeze.

Though by a lake,

They get a break.

At night the stars shine,

In a never-ending line.

In the day, the sky is low,

As a poppy I will grow.

Years after years,

Poppies never disappear.

We place them on a cross,

To represent our loss.

In November we mark,

The loneliness in our heart.

By wearing a poppy bright and red,

To remember both the survivors and the dead.