A COUNTRY bled, no home exempted from frightful loss

Aye, even now the poppies do roam

But in Flanders fields there is no cross

It was all a game, a time of mirth

They’d see the Hun right off

But boy after boy fell to bloodstained earth

And in Flanders fields there is no cross.

There was no angel, they say, at Mons

Where England showed who’s boss

But on that Somme first day

Bled forty-thousand sons

Yet in Flanders fields there is no cross.

All heaven in a perfect sky

Meadows of lichen and moss

A scarlet river winding by

But in Flanders fields there is no cross.

Oh God, oh God, it could not be, could not be

And yet it was, it was.

Where now Haig and French and Joffre?

They are not in Flanders fields which bears no cross.

Mr D Adsett

Penlan

Penarth