Poppies grew where men once fell, on fields once soaked in blood

Life goes out, in a wink, after the cannon’s thud

”To war!” They cried, ”To war! To WAR!” swearing oaths wholly hollow and so they went, those doomed few, food for the cannon to swallow.

—

I wrote the above poem a few years ago. I still remember it, ant thought it appropriate to post on here today.

I’m now supposed to write something on here about honour and sacrifice, and about how we must remember our brave soldiers who died for us. But we all know that would be platitudinous bullshit: the truth is I know nothing of war, and very few of us do. I fear the country has lately become obsessed with the wearing of the poppy, as if not wearing one is a sign of disrespect, and any organisation which dares to suggest they shouldn’t be worn to prevent political bias is pounced upon from the highest echelons of government. It is starting to remind me of the Americans, with their jingoistic flag-wearing; there, anyone who doesn’t have a flag on their lapel is an instant outcast. The men who died for this country do so to protect our freedoms, in theory at least, but where is the freedom in demanding everyone conform to mindless, jingoistic patriotism? The truth is, they fought and died for those in power, to protect people to whom they were just cannon fodder, and who thus have a vested interest in making sure we all keep chanting this patriotic bull.