In France (or Anzac Day)
Blocks of rocking men march to the drums.
The Inglis, dark and calm, beds the moon,
To the sky, a slanting rain of guns.
The boys quietly fish through the ti tree,
Playing, joking, running free.
Blocks of rocking men march to the drums.
Sunrise over the river, a golden rush,
Sunrise over the trenches, a leaden slush,
To the sky, a slanting rain of guns.
Sunset over the river, a spray of red,
The tide runs bloody with dread.
Blocks of rocking men march to the drums.
The frost lies clean and pure on green field
The muddy snow hardens and does not yield
To the sky, a slanting rain of guns.
Wynyard boys and men lie dying near trenches.
Back in Tasmania we worry and weep.
White bait in the river and the fish are jumping.
To the sky, a slanting rain of guns,
Blocks of rocking men march to the drums.
© Patricia Turner
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