My hand-knitted and crocheted poppies have proved popular this year-one lady stopping me on my way to catch the train to purchase one which was a little bizarre.

I love poppies; they are my favourite flower and I will no doubt have a lump in my throat this evening when cascades of them are released from the ceiling nets at the Albert Hall, the traditional ending to the annual Remembrance Service.

Lest we forget.

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.