A soft grey mist,
Poppies flamed brilliant where the woodlands bend
Or straggling in amongst the ripening corn,
Green grass dew kist;
While distantly a lark’s pure notes ascend,
Greeting the morn.
A shuddering night;
Flames, not of poppies, cleave the quivering air,
The corn is razed, the twisted trees are dead;
War in his might
Has passed; Nature lies prostrate there
Stunned by his tread.
Aimee Byng Scott
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