REMEMBRANCE

The annual hand wringing

We don’t glorify war – but we do

We talk of ‘The Ultimate Sacrifice’

But sacrifice is voluntary

And Unlike most DIA s

The thin red line has always been maintained

By the prospect of flogging, white feather or firing squad

Selective language

Collateral damage, friendly fire, brutal attack, how do they differ ?

Dachau, Abhus Gres, Guantanamo

Truth is the first, but not the only, casualty

Objectivity, honesty, freedom also

While old soldiers march together to the pub

To remember the friendships but not the horror

The laughs but not the tears

And our media prints similar rose coloured memories

On Reflection

“We didn’t used to have one of you”

my first words to him

aged three

Welcome home Dad

“Look after your mum for me”

his last words to me

aged fifty six

And in between

my memory fails

a misty melange of

garden golf, marriage fights

desperate acts to please

and occasional

uncomfortable

peace

But to my shame no clear picture remains

and I find myself wondering

with some discomfort

how much

and what

our much loved three

will remember of us.

Of  Scout and Archer.

I’m always tired on Thursdays when we’ve been to see

Those third  generation

Energetic

Screaming, laughing girls

I did not know what ‘grandfather’ would mean

What unexpected pleasures lay in store

My friends had shared their  exhilaration

But somehow I had been

If not a disbeliever

At least a doubter

Its not just the snuggles

And the hugs

And the giggles

Nor the sudden kisses

Nor those wide expressions

Of joy and trust

But it is the wonder

When those little hands

Sink into mine

And I examine the years between us

The  sense of harmony

When we spot their mother’s smile

Or their father’s eyes

It expands our understanding

Of family

It gives purpose

To living

And I can’t wait till Thursday.

A friend is dying

and suddenly mortality

is centre stage.

She was so vivacious,

so determined,   so

alive.

Insistent that we all would gather

some twenty five years hence

to celebrate her ninetieth birthday.

She knew, of course.

Her rational self

had accommodated the truth,

commenced her familiarly meticulous preparations

for that final Stygian trip.

While her other self was in full speed denial,

throwing out all her clothes

to start a new wardrobe,

more fitting for her next stage

of life.

I see it now.

I did not see it then,

at our last meeting ,

Just one year ago.

And I see the impact on Sue,

normally so controlled,

accepting of the inevitability of death.

Her sense of helplessness,

Injustice, anger, sorrow:

that one so young,

so always optimistic,

should suffer so.

Her husband adores her,

worships even,

and now seeks solace

in the role of protector,

offering what comfort he can

and posting electronic updates

to shocked recipients

of the seemingly endless invasions

of this most malignant growth.

And this awareness of mortality

prods my own consciousness.

Am I ready ?

What if ?

A friend is dying

and our world

lurched.

Memories of Belsen

A beautiful spring morning

In distant skies birds carol and cavort in celebration of warmer skies

But not here.

In local fields lambs, calves, puppies chase their tails in simple joy

But not here

In nearby parks lovers entwine in passion and dream of futures shared

But not here

Here

Birds hit an invisible barrier and dart away

Here

A rabbit, myxomatosis riddled, staggers through grass to a painful death

Here

Echoes of guttural commands, whistles, dogs, muted screams hang in the air

Here

Numbing rows of grass mounds enclose thousands of now anonymous  corpses

Here

Scattered visitors  in solitary thought, stare, stumble, wonder

How

Why

Here.

Les Littleford    June 2010

[In 1965 I visited the  memorial park where Belsen Concentration Camp was once located. No buildings remain, but the open parkland is still surrounded by barbed wire, there are a few memorials, and large mounds each with a single gravestone mark the date and number entombed in each. It was a beautiful spring day, but I noticed that no birds flew overhead, and the only living thing I saw  was a rabbit in the advanced stages of myxomatosis. It was a potent image which has remained with me.]

Broken  Dreams

Across the wind scraped, sun baked paddocks of the Never Never

They stand

like rust encrusted Boabs

overflowing  only with forgotten memories

and broken dreams.  Winter winds entangle spinifex ,

summer sun patterns the rust

and the flood cleans everything

as it always has. This was the new Eldorado

across the Inland Sea .Mirages both .

The oldest of lands in harmony with

nomadic survival

but  settlement indifferent.

Too hot

Too  dry

Too wet

Too  far.

The land’s enduring strength revealed

by ruins   of grand designs

enveloped by creeper and vine

eroded by flood

warped by heat.

And  belittled by Indigenous  beauty .

Sweeping chasms, giant forests, sculptured rock.

While the marvels of their  age

Stand in the sun

And rust.

Les Littleford   4/11/2010

[Across the parched landscape of the northern interior can be seen long disused, rusting, steam engines standing desolate and alone in vast paddocks. ]

LEICHARDT  WINTER SATURDAY  6.00 pm

Overhead steel birds pierce the gloom

On Norton Street persistent rain fails to quell the sense of life

As a damp Saturday afternoon slides into a wet evening

Time for choice between late coffee or early wine

As waiters set tables with candles and starched linen

Casual casual  gives way to casual chic

Neon flash, shops close, raindrops dance in car lights

And though the rain still falls even the dark is vibrant.

It’s the noise, the chaos and the smell …

the shrugged shoulders of indifference …

the secret smile of knowing ….

the heat that crushes…

Then the evening rain:

a black cloud that curtained the sky

carving a scimitar of light

bringing a sodden wall of water.

The taxi coughed and spluttered

its ruthless and idiosyncratic way

while I sat, lost, and helpless.

And all those tropical memories

rose from forgotten places

a patina of smiling faces

always just out of reach.

So many servants.

So few guests.

The same old guilt.

Just Thinking

I find myself in a comfortable place

Released from the pressures of work

Happily oblivious to  weekly demands

A new busy is pleasantly relaxing

We share time more often

Enjoy mutual  interests

And because we can

Give each other space

I still dream

Aspire to new goals

Imagine a change of direction

But  sometimes the reflection in the mirror shocks

And when bending is harder and stretching  slower

Realise I am entering the end zone

I do not expect  anything after the end

If I fear at all  it is

Senility

Dribbling incapacity

But there is much to do before then

And the end zone has its own rewards

They came in their thousands

to wait in the sun

and wave their little flags

and cheer.

These descendants of those

shipped here ingloriously,

Their selective memories

excluding the expendability of Gallipoli;

recalling only the pageantry and pomp

of an anachronistic institution;

basking briefly in the glitter

of some passing sideshow;

teaching their children ridiculous curtseys

and going home happy that they have

‘seen the queen.’

And there’s the rub.

They did go home happy.

Against all my logic and expectation

the visit for some was a grand occasion.

So perhaps there are fairies at the bottom of my garden.