where crops sway in the breeze,

reminds the folk of Pozieres

of waste that war decrees.

More densely sown with sacrifice

than any place on Earth,

four thousand Australians died

and what was their fate worth?

The French declare it sacred ground,

the place where blood was shed

by those who never went back home

but stayed with them instead.

Some veterans of Gallipoli

with Anzac honours praised,

were redeployed to fiercer scenes

that saw the country razed.

At Pozieres, Divisions three

defied the German bomb

in the bloodiest of battles

and slaughter of The Somme.

they lie in pieces undisturbed

where massacres occurred--

for them there was no burial--

no pomp or funeral word.

Their price of victory so supreme

yet still no recompense-

Man's inhumanity to man

a curse on common sense.

A hundred years have now passed by

and still no monument

exists on site to recognise

their deeds and what they meant.

by Kevin Pye

(Oh for the days when ladies wore gloves)

Once we wore gloves

to cover our scratched, battered, gardening hands

when playing 'ladies'.

Now the fashion

is acrylic nails

on ring adorned fingers.

So I drag out the glamorous stilts

and throw a scarf around my little black dress

put a smile upon a painted face

and hide my hands under the table.

by Diane Simmonds

Mudgee Valley Writers: meets at the Club Mudgee, first floor in room 2. Second Tuesday at 12pm to 3pm.  All are welcome.

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