The Miracle Flower

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915

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

Another beauty growing in my mom's garden. Vibrant red and by the looks of it one of her favourites. I had a look in the garage and saw countless seedheads that were left there to dry. I know mom uses them in her floral displays and I suppose that's another reason they grow in such abundance in her garden. Her poppies were nearing the end of their flowering season so I'm counting myself lucky to have been able to catch them while there were still a few left in bloom.


Folklore has it poppies growed in places where someone was killed and that the plant drank the blood of the victims and stored it in it's petals. I suppose that's what inspired the poem by John McCRea after seeing poppies grow in the fields of carnage in Flanders. His poem inspired another by Moina Michael which ultimately led to people wearing poppies on days of Remembrance and Memorial.


We Shall Keep the Faith
by Moina Michael, November 1918

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields

Long time ago when I was in school we visited those fields where the Great War was fought. I don't think it meant much to me at the time seeing those fields where once man had fought a war. The sites were still very much intact only now they were green with grass. Not the red coloured fields of death. Underneath the verdant green grass you could still make out the shape of the mounds of earth where once bombs had created havoc. I felt so removed from it all at the time. I was about 13 or 14 years old then and that Great War, a war that was to be the end of all wars, didn't impress me much at the time. At least not until I entered the mausoleum and saw the bones, the rows of bones and skulls of thousands of unknown soldiers who fought to their death.


Hmmm, strange how the mind sometimes wanders, it wasn't my intention to talk about death, in fact I was hoping this would turn into a story on the beauty of the poppy. maybe it will, maybe it won't. It's just that now somehow I can see in my mind the rows upon rows of bones in all shapes and sizes stacked on top of another in that Mausoleum. I guess age adds an appreciation and understanding of history and greater empathy for the suffering of others even if it was oh so long ago. Somehow it is entwined with a greater understanding and empathy of and for the world we live in today.

I took the pic above at the War Cemetery in Oosterbeek last year where I spent some time one afternoon in the sun walking past the hundred or so graves of soldiers who fought in that other great war, World War II. It's not a large cemetery but I am ashamed to admit it was the first time I'd ever been there and ashamed to admit it was the first time I had taken some interest in the history of the city I live in; Arnhem, a city that played such an important role in the history of The Netherlands, WWII and Operation Market Garden. I spent some time in the shade contemplating how my visit to Oosterbeek, which is not far from Arnhem, only 20 minutes by bike, made me feel.

In a way that simple, frail, delicate red flower is as good a way as any I can find to sum it all up. The poppy is a symbol of what connects us all. It connects us to our history and the beliefs of our ancestors. To the history being made today and the beliefs we have now. And that is why it is the Miracle Flower.



More on the history of the poems and The Great War can be found here.