POETRY
Sunset at the Perth War Cemetery

I came here with my mother first. Later
she bought a house nearby. I walk here still.
There are new names, new rows of plaques
and new blank walls to fill.

One Anzac Day my mother and I
walked through Perth, she in her nurse’s cape,
after the march. I saw with apprehension
a crowd of drunks. I looked to escape

as they sprawled out of a pub, a couple fighting.
(My boarding-school had taught me fear
at eight years old). I tugged her sleeve,
Urged her to cross the road as we drew near.

They were loud, had bottles, were staggering,
blocking the pavement ahead.
I pulled harder at my mother’s sleeve.
“Oh, they’re all right,” she said.

She walked on. The brawling old diggers
stood as ram-rods, hands on hearts, till she passed.
Some called, “God bless you, Sister!” Some saluted.
“Why are they doing that?” I asked.

I think I know the reason now.
I place three poppies: one for my own dead,
One for a hero I knew, one at random.
The West is glorious in gold and red.

Hal G.P. Colebatch