It looks like a murder scene,

Only discovered when someone screams.

The sun lights trembling grass clustered in fear,

Flowers like dimples waver as it nears.

Bound tight and still as death,

The uniform shape holds no breath.

Bleached and dried by summer sun,

The rattled whispers of too-tall grass has begun.

The meadow forgets the death in their wake,

Though flowers that can see it still quake.

Heather and bushes act as an unwilling shield.

Red poppies slice through the field.