Clean-shaven, hair brushed
nervous, smiling
in fresh khaki uniforms they
stepped up wearing the
slouch hats of Down Under
boots squeaking
jackets chafing
farm boys, factory workers
bushmen, sheep shearers
carpenters, railwaymen
carrying kit bags and
Lee Enfield .303 bolt-action rifles with
17-inch bayonets
Sons of Empire
they answered the call.
Across the waters from
once-burned Troy where
Hector died and
Priam and Achilles both wept
and every Trojan woman
where the Crescent flew
still flies
they stepped ashore on
rock and sand to
duck the sniper's shot to
burrow in the clay to
bathe under bursts of shrapnel to
fight along ridges and
through gullies filled with thyme and
stinking dead.
With rifle and bayonet
they charged
into the death-chattering machine guns
that cut them down.
Young men, brave men, frightened men
they charged
into the death-chattering machine guns
that cut them down.
Sun-bronzed men
firm muscled and fine limbed
athletes
trained for battle
they charged
into the death-chattering machine guns
that cut them down.
Still their bones poke through the earth
ghastly relics of fallen empire
our blood sacrifice
our blood-letting
our manhood and nationhood
conceived in futile gesture
born in valiant death.
Young heroes
we remember you for
who you were for
how you died
and those
who returned alive
too few
now departed old men
we remember too.