Red spheres upon green
So thoughtfully arranged,
Like poppies row on row,
Tunnels my path to play
To run, gallop, frolic and yelp.
Happiness. The ecstasy of being a child.

Father worked the fields,
A precise harvest, work all year-round.
No rest, all stress, no time for him to play
He works like a Clydesdale, an animal bred for labour.
The ethic runs through his blood,
As red as his stained hands.
His back breaks, his head pounds.

Beyond the red fields
Where blood seeps from its very essence
The soldiers march, row on row.
The war awaits
As I play.

The years grow old, the war ceases.
My back breaks, my head pounds.
It’s my turn to work all year round
And have my own hands stained.
The soldiers are long buried
Row on row,
Beside my inheritance.
These strawberry fields forever