Poppies
On May 6 the San Diego paper had a brief photo-essay showing some U.S. Marines on patrol in poppy fields in Helmand province in Afghanistan. The Marines weren’t specifically guarding the fields but the irony of their situation, considering the long standing drug policies of the U.S., was not lost on them. Nevertheless they understood their primary mission and it was not to disrupt the economy of the locals regardless of its basis.
I remembered a poem my father used to recite to me, when I was a boy, written by a Canadian Army doctor who died in 1918, John McCrae.
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, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from 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.
Here’s hoping those men in the photograph get back safe and sound to write their own poems.
I remembered a poem my father used to recite to me, when I was a boy, written by a Canadian Army doctor who died in 1918, John McCrae.
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, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from 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.
Here’s hoping those men in the photograph get back safe and sound to write their own poems.
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