Fields

Fields

The wind rustles over the carpet and the soft mist of shade sways

Green.

Curving in concord, each blade the brother of the next.

One veneer, one hue.

Yet every blade is different, every blade contains history,

Evolution wrapped up in a small green shoot.

The breeze glides over the meadow and the soft haze of hues swing

Red.

Bending in unison, each poppy the sister of the next.

One covering, one tone.

Yet every stalk is distinctive, every stalk holds bygones,

Evolution wrapped up in a small red flower.

The chill envelops the fields and the soft fog of colours fall

Red, yellow, black, brown, white.

Collapsing in sympathy, each the sibling of the next.

Blankets of colour, many shades.

Yet every soldier is unique, every comrade preserves a bloodline

Evolution’s highest pinnacle wrapped up in a Flanders shroud.

So many colours side by side, brothers in arms, daughters of time

Sleeping in Flanders Fields

By Linda Prince