By Richard Davies

The Guns are silent now, The landscape tortured beyond belief, The quiet broken by a lone bird singing a sorrowful

The field now quite, A hazy smoke drifts about, The smell of cordite from exploding shells, mixed with the metallic

Their khaki uniforms dyed green, to match the jungle, Soon a mottled colour from the continuous rain These young diggers

I am woken from my slumber by a thunderous crash that shakes me to my soul, the iron monsters upon

I stand on the hill, For tomorrow I would lead a parade at This site, and gaze upon the scene,

We Lay to rest an old digger today, His finial battle over, the one that no one wins, He served his country in world war two.