Everything Slows On Anzac Day 25/4/17 Poem by John Mackinnon

Everything slows on Anzac Day
25/4/17

Everything slows on Anzac Day,
Moving backwards
From the first slow bounce
Replayed,
The first slow kick,
And the ball turning slowly
In the air
The slow blue air
Calling
The players eyes
Upwards.

Backward pass,
And voices calling
For the ball
Then slowly, slowly falling
Through the fog
Of time,
Still grasping
Til the last,
The last grand chance
To try.

Turn down the sound
On the replay
And you will hear them yet,
They are calling,
Still, vainly calling
Through the years
That separate
Mere balls
From bayonets.

The bugle sounds,
The piper wails,
The earth laments.
The ground it hides
Is full, so full
Of blood
And broken souls
From either side.

Everything slows on Anzac day,
Moving backwards
From the first slow bounce
Replayed,
The first slow charge
And the rifles tumbling slowly
In the air,
The slow blue air
Calling
The eyes of the world's children
Upwards.

Though names
Be lost,
We may hear them yet,
In distant fields
And local pubs,
'Fair game',
'Your toss',
'Pay it forward',
'Don't forget your mates',

On Anzac Day.