Ricochet

There’s a hole in Grandpa’s jacket
Which he wore when he was tested
For his courage at the Battle of Tobruk
And the letter in the pocket
Where, for years now it has rested
Beckons me to take a furtive look
Yet I do not wish to venture
Back in time to that far place
It’s sad enough for me to witness
Passing ghosts and shades of madness;
Wartime horrors written on his weary face

The campaign medals that he keeps
In the second-bottom drawer
Are locked away together
For when he looks at them he weeps
So there they’ll stay, forever more
But his memories he can’t sever
They haunt him still in dreams
Gunfire carries down the corridor of years
And the cries of dying comrades
Mingled with his wartime sadness
Echoing at night, reduce him, still, to tears

I won’t be wearing Grandpa’s jacket
In the Anzac Day Parade
I’ll leave his medals in their usual hiding place
The letter in the pocket
Can grow dustier and fade
While I read the story on my Grandpa’s face
I’m told he won’t be with us for much longer
He says he leaves to meet the comrades that he made
Next year I’ll read his letter
Clean his jacket, shine his medals
But I will not march in any Anzac Day parade.

Zannie