PASTURES GREEN

Pastures green, poppy fields,

graves for soldiers fallen.

A wooden cross marks a resting place,

a thousand miles from loved ones.

Rusted wire, silent guns,

trenches torn and broken.

A helmet rests on a rifle butt,

the tools of war unspoken.

Anzac Days, colours blaze,

their battle honours borne on.

Old men march and a bugle plays,

in memory of the fallen.

©Copyright 1965 by Mike Subritzky