There’s a lonely stretch of hillocks:
There’s a beach asleep and drear:
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves:
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There’s a torn and silent valley:
There’s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth.
There are lines of buried bones:
There’s an unpaid waiting debt :
There’s a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.
Anzac Cove, Gallipoli,
now passed from living memory
as none are left alive to be
spokespersons for their cause.
The little rotting pier replaced,
ancestral footsteps oft' retraced;
family honour not disgraced...
still men take part in wars.
Blood traces upon stones sun bleached
as lines of buried bones are reached,
here, where the ANZAC force was breached
...it seems all men wear flaws.
The Southern sound of sobbing wanes
and sunken graves still hold remains
though long the beach is washed of stains,
an ANZAC spirit soars.