Pozieres
A grassy mound above the fields
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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
Gloves
(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
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