Wow!  This summer I saw fields full of fantastic poppies just begging to be photographed, so hey guess what that’s just what I did.

They were beautiful flowers, bright red against a deep blue sky, majestic but somehow also lonely and fragile – maybe even vulnerable. Certainly vulnerable to the elements.

I decided to give them a fine art look and I have produced a selection of them below.

Of course photographing and thinking about poppies, especially in November, made me reflect on how symbolic they are and the memories they evoke, especially of remembrance.

Perhaps one of the most famous poems about poppies and remembrance is ‘In Flanders Field’ by John McCrae and I have reproduced this below.  I also read two other poems about poppies that I thought I would share with you as well.



Poppies in a field



In Flanders Field

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.


Colourful poppies in an Essex field


Wild Essex poppies




The Poppy

By Jane taylor

High on a bright and sunny bed

A scarlet poppy grew

And up it held its staring head,

And thrust it full in view.

Yet no attention did it win,

By all these efforts made,

And less unwelcome had it been

In some retired shade.

Although within its scarlet breast

No sweet perfume was found,

It seemed to think itself the best

Of all the flowers round,

From this I may a hint obtain

And take great care indeed,

Lest I appear as pert and vain

As does this gaudy weed


Wild poppies growing in a field


Scarlet Poppies

He would walk down to the lakeside
Beneath the sky of midnight blue
She’d be waiting in the moonlight
Where the scarlet poppies grew

He would tell her that he loved her
Into her soft brown eyes he’d stare
He would pick a scarlet poppy
And he’d place it in her hair

But one night he came and told her
He’d been called up for the war
As she sobbed upon his shoulder
He could not have loved her more

They kissed goodbye at the lakeside
Beneath the sky of midnight blue
Then he left her in the moonllght
Where the scarlet poppies grew

They’d been swarming up the hillside
And had almost reached the crest
There were bullets flying past him
Then one sank into his chest

He fell down in that foreign land
He was soaked with morning dew
And his blood ran down the hillside
Where the scarlet poppies grew

As he had died so far from home
He grasped a flower growing there
Which his spirit bore to England
To place in his lover’s hair

She awoke and found the poppy
Its petals were tinged with black
She’d felt her poor heart breaking
And knew he would not come back

When she went down to the lakeside
Beneath the sky of midnight blue
There were only withered flowers
Which had come into her view

She had heard his spirit whisper
“You know that my love was true”
She’d wept and said “Farewell my love”
Where once scarlet poppies grew


Blue sky and red poppies


A single red poppy in a field of daisies

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