At ANZAC weekend
and a southerly blowing
the last of the summer crickets sought sanctuary
in the trenches by the concrete wall
Children played with plastic drink bottle grenades
never knowing the impact
a fact lost in distant memory and shades of khaki
brasso polished medals and parade ground manouvres
A memory of battles never uttered by fathers
returned from Crete
their memories now turned to dust
under a shrouded moon
