You Never Talked of The War

 On ANZAC Day

we’d drive to Auckland,

wearing red paper poppies,

you, your row of glowing medals,

me, with fresh Brasso remains

still under my finger nails.

We attended the service,

sang ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’

choked up for The Last Post

and left our poppies

next to the wreathes.

And afterwards, lunch,

then hide and seek

around the tables and chairs

with nameless children

seen just once a year

while you reminisced

with the 22^nd Battalion boys

and the wives chatted.

But you never talked of the war,

not at home

not to us.

When I did my OE

I got a letter in reply

to my stories of Italy

asking, “What did you see at Casino?

You DID go to Casino?”

and I replied, “We haven’t

got enough money

to be gambling.”

The sharp response came,

“Not A casino, Casino!

You did go there?”

But we had simply driven past,

not stopped to reflect

on how you killed and

came close to death

yourself, and in fact how

something in you

had indeed died

in that battle.

You had never talked of war,

not at home

not to us.