AN OLD ANZAC DIGGER

The story is told

of days of old

about a man I knew,

He worked the land,

he gave his hand

to those within his fold.

The sun came up

and the sun went down, wind blew

then dried his sweated brow.

Through dust and flies

through rain and heat,

He watched his garden grow.

He saw the times

when they were good.

He saw the times

when they were sad.

But never once did it daunt

his pure bred Aussie heart.

But the time it came,

that his old hands,

Had worn thin, slowed right down.

The time had come to pass on

to those that he had born,

Then watch

them toil for theirs.

Now he sits in aged years

To pass on the wisdom born,

Through heartache and pain,

The times borne through tears.

Where spirit went close

To falling well within an abyss

For there were times that only love

Of this wide brown land,

Could stoutly lift the Aussie heart.

So just remember my people,

Of the wisdom I said was born

By sweated brow and patience abounding

The rain will come

The gardens will grow,

Some crops will fail,

Some yields will again become good.

For as the story goes,

the sun will rise tomorrow.

A poem by (A.B) Ben Eggleton.

The Bard from the Scrub.

WHY

We remember yet

The sons of this land

That lay down their tools

To give a mate a hand.

To wade through hell

And cry endless, painful tears

For mates lost on foreign lands.

 An ache numbed only by years.

We often wonder why

They all went and did

All the things they had

For what all the powers had bid.

Medals they gave them,

On ribbons all bright

That bring back memories

Of every lonely, torrid fight.

As proudly they marched to the beat

Of a drum not all could hear.

Some would fall and never be found.

Some would stand alone in fear.

Even those with no legs or arms,

Or eyes that would never see,

Won't forget the sounds they had heard

As flesh and life ceased to be.

Through a silent still dawning,

I sit on my porch and wish,

I could be where the brass is sounding.

Standing tall and proud, looking swish.

Medals gleaming, gold and silver bright, As mornings Rays glint upon them.

My mates all by my side,

Minds memories drifting to back when.

The piper sounds the starting call.

A stirring noise of marching feet

Echoes off silent buildings.

I see them all salute and greet

My tear filled eyes as I look down

To the place my legs used to be.

And I wonder why such evil men

Had made someone take them from me.

We often wonder why

We all went and did

All the things we had

For what the powers had bid.


A poem by (A.B) Ben Eggleton.

The Bard from the Scrub.

NAMELESS

I am the unknown soldier

My eyes will never again see

Those who don't know who I was

Placed me in this spot where I still lay

A prayer they said over me 

Even though they knew me not But I did 

I was my mothers son Born of my fathers loins 

And I know they still wonder where I am.

I am revered in history of battles long gone 

From battlefields on lands far and wide

Where soldiers have never been found

Gone without a trace never to be seen 

On that one day of the year the last post sounds


As they place wreaths in memory of the lost 

And give thanks for all the sacrifice Young men and women made day to day 

A eulogy someone reads with a tear 

For the unknown and known soldiers

Even if they knew me not

But I did

I was my mothers son

Born of my fathers loins

And I know they still wonder where I am.

A poem by (A.B) Ben Eggleton.

The Bard from the Scrub.