I stand this morning on the hill

Listening to the bugle call east and west

Watching the sun rise over this city

Quiet while dark figures lay wreaths

For the dead.

For the fallen, as is said .

The wind is cold today

The sky’s grey

A stillness about our city.

I want to be with my father.

Search for him in the faint light

Where we all look the same:

Young and old, those who are

Remembering,those who

Have nothing to remember yet.

I search for him

I want to stand alongside

Share some of what I think he feels

But never says.

I need to be with him

As he thinks about

First friends who died

Those boys in his battalion photo

As beautiful as my son .

Where would he stand in the crowd?

Silent,at the edges

Not wanting to push in

His peaked cap over his eyes ,jacket zipped up to his chin

Head down against the wind.

He is slightly stooped

Older these last few years

As old friends have died.

I reach into a pocket and open his fingers

Clasp them tightly and move in

His hands are cold .

Does he feel he is the only one left?

Does he wonder?

Did he wonder even at twenty

Why he survived

And what is so special about him?

These are the words I have found to tell

Suzette Thompson

(First written Anzac Day 1998)