ANZACs

It wasn’t till long,

That bone-chilling song,

from the trumpeter blowing that tune.

I could feel your presence,

Tui in hand, not making any sense,

slurring words in the sultry afternoon.

A blunt ciggy with a glowing end,

blowing up smoke in our uncle’s den,

but you said, “She’ll be right.”

“She wasn’t right,” Uncle said,

as he put you in a headlock on your bed,

and told you a piece of his mind.

From then, into the army you went

you said, a time well spent.

I remember that story with every detail.

Those days in the afternoon sun,

speaking about everything you’ve done.

Just a thought, I remember, oh so very well.