Pitch
black through the wire, insects on fire,
Strain and rain on my face, as I stare;
What's that I see, near that rubber tree?
Perhaps shadows from a parachute flare.
A whisper, a
shake: "Hey! Are you now awake?"
That auditory impulse is clear;
Yet confusing my brain: "Picket again?"
I'll pretend, that I just didn't hear.
Another
nightmare, anxiety I share,
Reactions, that few understand;
'Twas 4 a.m., ebony like then,
Flashbacks, to a strange foreign land.
Time to get
dressed, coat hanging, pre-pressed,
Coloured ribbons fade with time;
And yet they represent, on this one event,
Special bonds with mates of mine.
By train or by
bus, and ferries full of us,
The fare on this day is for free;
A grey ship like a ghost, Garden Island its host,
Triggering weird thoughts within me.
A service at
dawn, to reflect upon,
War and all of its violence;
A tribute, a wreath, a nation's grief,
A bugle breaking that eerie silence.
This haunting
sound, echoes right around,
The entire nation, for all to pause;
As those chilling notes, from 'The Last Post',
Reminds us of dreadful cost in all wars.
Yet there is a
trace, in the odd vacant face,
Lack of pride, perhaps distaste;
Respect 'tis nought, show no support,
Since such sacrifice to them was a waste.
Everyone 'tis
true, has rights to a view,
And yet ignore how those rights were won;
And still glad, somehow, our flag hasn't now,
Been changed to a Rising Sun.
Though to the
past most try, to say goodbye,
Yet the debt, to the dead, will stay;
And that price they paid, spawns this parade,
Performed every ANZAC Day.
'Vets'
congregate, to commemorate,
Together, after years apart;
Others stand alone, all on their own,
Awaiting, for the march to start.
Spit-polished
boots, bagpipes and flutes,
Trombones and drums commence their beat;
Then successive groups, just like army troops,
Step off in turn, on their left feet.
Crowds lining
six deep, old ladies weep,
Although cheering and clapping hands;
Aussie flags flying, all veterans trying,
To keep in time with the bands.
Flowers adorn,
a symbol to mourn,
An icon, on our mapped-out route;
A silent recall, of those who gave all,
Heads turned united, in salute.
Tired thirsty
souls, off to 'Watering Holes',
Perhaps with pain held deep inside;
Things forced to do, sad memories too,
Of a time when mates had died.
In
reminiscing, a few gaps still missing,
News of what's happened in a year;
Another grandson born, another 'Digger' gone,
"It's your 'shout' again!", I hear.
Finally
unwound, most circle around,
Adventures turned to jokes;
No self-awarding, nor self applauding,
Just yarns of mates and other blokes.
Some stop in
pubs, in parks or clubs,
Two spinning pennies thrown high;
A gambling game, 'Two-Up' is its name,
And the police turn one blind eye.
"It's a
bloody date! So I'll ring you mate!"
Promises they rarely keep;
Then heading back home feeling all alone,
And dreading that night's restless sleep.
If people want
to know, why we always go?
I guess there's just one thing left to say:
"If you're sincere, attend next year,
And become part of ANZAC Day!"
© Paul La Forest
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