Anzac Day In a Small Country Town

Observations of a an Anzac Day march in New Zealand's North Island.

 

The sergeant barks, the familiar drill, in the dark and chilly air.
Arms length, three abreast, no sloppy marching there.
Creaking bones, shuffle along. till the line looks just ship shape.
Shining boots, lined row on row, hide feet that are starting to ache.

The piper's drone, fills the morning dark, the chanter rends the air.
The drummer snares, a marching beat, the boots respond in pairs.
Silent save, the creaking boot, and The piper's strident aire.
We march along, with memories, beneath our graying hair.
Of younger days, and weary ways, with the drummer's incessant beat.
Our feet complain, as we march again, though it's just to the end of the street.

We stand in line, in front of the shrine, remembering how comrades fell.
Thoughts of blood and gore, though we don't say more, are more than we ever tell.
Of the battles noise, that surrounds our boys, are more like the scenes of hell.
And the smell and sound, in our head goes round, while we list to the bugler's note.
And I think dear friend, of the ghastly end, and how few came back on the boat.

We are back at the hall, both one and all, with a glass of cheer in our hand.
And we speak of things, and the memory stings, in a way that few understand.
Still the red poppies grow, row on row, on the graves of the fallen slain.
And we promise anew, on the word that's true, that we won't go to war again.

But the Pollies bleat, and the news repeats, of the dangers and wars we face.
And if we don’t act, we’ll classed as slack, and that is a larger disgrace.
And forget that war, has it’s blood and gore, and encourage our sons once again.
So heedless they go, in pomp and show, to follow the band once again.

 So away they go, they can’t hear our “No”!  They follow the beating drum.
And they do their job, while their mothers sob, out prayers for their wandering one.
And some come home, to the bagpipes drone, and we stand till the Last Post’s note
Hangs quivering there, in the mourning air, he was just old enough to vote.

 
Lest we forget. 
The many mothers’ sons who have died trying to sort out the world’s problems. 

The Pollies said go. And they did. 
And still they die, and we join their mothers cry
Copyright Kelvin L. Wilson 2014