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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. |