Amy Chittick's entry

Lest We Forget

Amy Chittick

A teary eyed mother hugged her son for what could be the last time,
He left for war not long after he signed the dotted line,
"Mother please don't cry I really will be fine,
I'm going away to become a man and protect this county of mine,"

He packed for his training then prepared a piece of text,
"A chapter of my life is over; god knows what is coming next,"
After months and months of training he had learnt all that he can,
It was time to put it into practice and transition from boy to man,

On the 25th of April, he waited with his head leaned against his gun,
The boat stopped and his comrade shouted "here we go get ready to run,"
This young boy fighting for country only in his 18th year,
Bravely stormed up the bloody beaches ignoring his consuming fear,

Bullets flew past his head, while the deceased lay still at his feet
Not once did the thought cross his mind that he should retreat,
He fought hard for his country with everything he got,
Until he stumbled to the ground in pain after being shot,

A medic rushed to his side and he whispers in the medic's ear,
"Don't let people forget these sacrifices, make sure they remember them every year,"
He lets go of the medic as his pain begins to soar,
The young man then goes quiet; he feels his pain no more,

His eyes close ever so softly, his body lifeless on the ground,
His legacy continues while his soul is heaven bound,
Many souls like his were lost, taken from the best,
Husbands, sons and brothers; quietly in peace you will forever rest,

The pulseless bodies on the ground of pain they were now free,
Turned the white sand a dark blood red forever staining Gallipoli,
Almost 100 years on and people continue to answer the call,
To remember the sacrifice made by the men who gallantly gave their all,

A young boy places a poppy, on the glowing memorial wall,
And whispers "this one's for the brave soldiers who died protecting us all,"
The tomb of the unknown soldier, adorned by flowers and wreaths,
Is surrounded by four soldiers resting at arms, while hiding their grief,

CpI Ben Roberts-Smith remembers as he pins his Victoria Cross,
That war isn't all glory, and that sadly it is full of loss,
The bugler grips his bugle and inhales the chilly air,
He plays the last post proudly, leaving goosebumps and arousing neck hair,

The last post sounds at the crack of dawn, as the sun begins its steady climb,
A veteran stands tall proudly and salutes one more time,
in a parade through central Sydney, a soldier marches with pride,
His head held high he keeps in step; his medals clasped on his left side,

In a distant elderly nursing home a young lady and hero met,
They shed tears and embrace tightly before she whispers "Lest We Forget,"
I always get goose bumps whenever I hear the last post play,
When it finishes lain left with a tear in my eye every remembrance and ANZAC Day,

At my local dawn service I bow my head respectfully to the ground,
All is quiet during the minute silence; nothing is heard, not a sound,
I pay my respects to the fallen, while the flags are mast at half,
I then place a small red poppy on the shining cenotaph,

I stand back for a moment then clear all thoughts from my head,
I then thank the brave soldiers that sacrificed, so I can sleep soundly in my bed,
They gave their lives unselfishly so that we can live free,
They fought and died under a rising sun for country, for you and me,

The ANZAC spirit is kept alive in many different ways,
By children, adults and myself not only on Remembrance and ANZAC days
The spirit burns inside us as we live from day to day,
Because of those words a young man whispered, the spirit will forever stay,

"Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,"
Laurence Binyon couldn't have said it better; we will remember them.