Colin F. Jones


As always when I wake I fear to go
I struggle with my thoughts and how I feel
I haven’t slept; I walk here to and fro
And to my inner strength I do appeal
Piece by piece, I don what I will wear;
My coat with medals, badges and a tie
I tell myself that I don’t really care
I’m not real sure if I should laugh or cry
So off I go in the cool of early morn
Into the dim lit region of the stone
Where sad in silence I stand there so forlorn
Wishing that I had stayed at home
What are these thoughts that seem to lack a place
Are they my truth or are they my disgrace

I watch the speaker on our sacred day
The ANZACs and the crowds all gathered round
I know the words the speaker has to say
And I know it’s for himself not for the crowd
Behind the scenes the humble sweat and toil
While the old and crippled soldiers do their best
And I go home alone lest I do spoil
What is a day so sacred God has blessed
Therein my little room I sit and write
That all those inner feelings are set free
And contemplate to justify my plight
That with all I did and witnessed I agree
For so much falsehood lives in fragile fact
That I must sift the truth from every act

I laid the wreath for the TPI[1]
I stood and looked intently at the stone
Wherein the bodies of our lost soldiers lie
I felt so sad, so sad, and so alone
I wondered if they knew we loved them still
That every year we all come here to meet
That we who live retain the lasting will
Inside our hearts that urge our aging feet
I did not come to meet with friend or foe
I did not come to listen to them talk
I came to say goodbye to those I know
Who died that we may live forever more
In peace and wonder in this glorious land
Where we who lived though war still proudly stand