Beloved Soldier

As Anzac Day approaches my thoughts turn to those who are no longer with us…

Beloved Soldier

The sands of time weighed heavy on the old man’s thin gaunt frame
for life up in the high country would never be the same.
His life was solitary but by that he was not worried
he was used to his own company, his life alone, unhurried.

He sat and thought back twenty years when Jim was just a lad
but always a good offsider – folks said ‘just like his Dad’.
He was a crack shot with a rifle, had a firm hand on the rein
and at mustering none better – on that harsh mountain terrain

The old man had a scrapbook with its pages somewhat worn
and inside were photos of his son, and pieces that he’ d torn
from the local papers pages – telling of that far off war
in Afghanistan, that’s where Jim was – would be for evermore.

All dreams denied the old man now – salt tears rolled down his face.
His Mate had gone, he sorrowed.  And in that there’s no disgrace.
He’d passed into the legends written down time after time.
One more beloved soldier lost to one more bloody mine.

He had the flag they gave him – the PM had shook his hand.
They said that Jim died bravely – a true courageous man.
They sorrowed with him in his loss.  He could not say goodbye
for damage incurred was rather bad – no body home did fly.

The sands of time weighed heavy on the old man’s thin gaunt frame.
He knew he’d carry on somehow, though things were not the same.
In his mind he heard Jim’s voice ‘come on Dad – no time for tears
we’ve a hundred head to muster and we haven’t got all year.’

He knew nothing was outside save for trees and open space
but suspected that Jims spirit had found its last resting place.
Sometimes at night he noticed that old Misty cocked an ear.
Was it just the sigh of mountain winds, or Jim that she could hear?

He knew this place held memories and Jim’s spirit was there.
The old bloke sat and drank his tea and into firelight stared.
In the warmth and comfort of the home where young Jim had been born
he recalled those days of mateship ‘fore his son from him was torn.

Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet