Supplied courtesy of the © Robinvale Sentinel
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place;
And in the sky – the larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead, short days ago we lived – saw sunset glow;
Loved and were loved;
And now we lie on Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe,
To you with failing hands we throw,
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies
grow in Flanders’ fields.
Fear not that you have died for naught,
The Torch you threw to us, we caught,
And now our hands will hold it high;
Its glorious light will never die.
We’ll not break faith with you who lie
On many a field.
Photo credit: www.richardharpum.com