An old soldier stands in a poppy field, unsettled by the peace.
Who’s territory is this now?
The source and sight of so much conflict lies dormant. Tourists pass through and somebody tends to the poppies, but nobody stays.
He wonders why. Was this empty field worth the blood spilt if it was only ever going to be a home for the dead? Why did they fight so hard for this empty space? Do friendships grow amongst the friends and foes buried beneath the poppies?
The old soldier touches a medal on his chest. This land belongs to the fallen.