Another chance missed
of attending Dawn Parade.
This time, instead
of sleeping in, I wake
early to rain, bow my head
to its sound, not the Last Post.
My nephew's class, he tells me,
have been learning about
soldiering and history.
Did I know why the brim
turns up on the Diggers'
felt hats? Because when
they lifted their rifles
to their shoulders, biff
and the hats would fly off.
Yes, I say, and yet
when I was eighteen
I was a foot-soldier
in the New Zealand Army,
and our felt hats had brims
not turned up, lemon-squeezers
everyone called them --
we drilled, we sloped arms,
no-one's hat went flying.
No, in my day there weren't
wars to be sent to. Lucky!
I offer to mimic the Last Post
(in a Chinese restaurant
it's my portable aural
Shrine of Remembrance)
but he lets me off.
Two lucky generations,
mine and his, 'sacrifice'
mere lip-service.
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