Personally, Anzac Day
Posted: Thu Mar 07, 2013 3:34 pm
Personally, ANZAC Day
I hear but can’t identify with tales of darkest days,
Of young men and their slaughter in some muddy dugout maze.
I’ve seen the books along the shelf with khaki coloured spines,
In military order filed in regimented lines.
The documented valour paired with images grotesque
Each carefully selected as they passed the journo’s desk.
To show in text and graphics the inhuman face of war,
When Diggers fought so aliens would not invade our shore.
My sheltered world has not been touched, although I do recall,
An uncle and his son of whom it’s said had seen it all.
I’ve never got a telegram that tore my world apart,
Which turned into a knife blade and then twisted in my heart.
But. every year late April sees me out before the dawn,
I join the crowds converging, each one stifling a yawn
To stand around the cenotaph in reverent respect
All straining for a glimpse of the procession we expect.
Soldiers striding stiffly to the beat of marching band,
While others prance irately with a picket in their hand.
The one honours tradition and keeps memory alive,
The others seek a peaceful world where all men would survive.
It strikes me then the irony of that they protest for -
Cessation of all conflict and suppression of all war.
‘Cause Diggers gave their very lives and families for them,
That protestors and others have the freedom to condemn.
Wendy Seddon © February 2013
I hear but can’t identify with tales of darkest days,
Of young men and their slaughter in some muddy dugout maze.
I’ve seen the books along the shelf with khaki coloured spines,
In military order filed in regimented lines.
The documented valour paired with images grotesque
Each carefully selected as they passed the journo’s desk.
To show in text and graphics the inhuman face of war,
When Diggers fought so aliens would not invade our shore.
My sheltered world has not been touched, although I do recall,
An uncle and his son of whom it’s said had seen it all.
I’ve never got a telegram that tore my world apart,
Which turned into a knife blade and then twisted in my heart.
But. every year late April sees me out before the dawn,
I join the crowds converging, each one stifling a yawn
To stand around the cenotaph in reverent respect
All straining for a glimpse of the procession we expect.
Soldiers striding stiffly to the beat of marching band,
While others prance irately with a picket in their hand.
The one honours tradition and keeps memory alive,
The others seek a peaceful world where all men would survive.
It strikes me then the irony of that they protest for -
Cessation of all conflict and suppression of all war.
‘Cause Diggers gave their very lives and families for them,
That protestors and others have the freedom to condemn.
Wendy Seddon © February 2013