Behold! The fields are flushed with color red!
 Methinks not blood, but blood it may well be.
 Behold the sight! Nay turn my head instead,
 Avert mine eyes, this travesty I see.
Their sound! They sound as one and all agree
 That greatness comes in numbers more than one.
 Who strives to flee their common repartee
 Of dry repeated-ness and stories spun.
But lo! Their faces greet the noonday sun;
 All ‘tempt to dull her with their feign eclipse —
 So many, what has Mother Nature done?
 She stands aside, her hands upon her hips:
I wonder if the grass is truly green;
 With poppies tall, the grass is rarely seen.

Ferrick Gray
© 2017