Their branches proud above the town
like men in rank, their feet in mud,
skyward facing they can’t look down
their roots fixed in this land of blood.
And onward, over fields and seas
men wrenched their hearts too far from home,
mere saplings who would not make trees
but from whose seed a nation’s grown.
Across the green, the cenotaph
its lonely stone, rain-soaked and grey
like bone strewn in the aftermath
of one more wasteful bloody day.
And still the poplars stoic stand
to weave their roots in ancient soil.
As did those who left their land
that we may live through their dark toil.