A BIT OF A STOUSH

 

A BIT OF A STOUSH ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

He'd claimed squatter's rights from the Crown on this land where

he built up his herd to the envy of some,

were any to query his rights to this soil then

arguments were lost at the point of a gun.

He'd married and done well and raised him a fine son,

the light of his life, a young bloke well bred

whose love of the land - well 'twas second to none,

 he would fight to keep it, no more need be said.

 

And when War drums rattled and played the old Anthem,

young men of this nation rallied to the call

all thinking a stoush would be merely a lark

and over by Christmas - a one-sided brawl.

 

When they disembarked in the shadow of pine trees

that stretched gaunt and slender limbs naked and bare

upwards to the clouds in the blue-sky cathedral

'longside marble mosques and tall minarets where

Muezzeins called the faithful to prayer and to worship

from atop the minaret was their voice heard.

The Aussie blokes claimed it was like a cat screeching

and found the whole exercise somewhat absurd.

 

But more pressing things there were, soon to employ them,

a stoush it was waiting, and Turks were the foe

all rumours claimed they would fight at Gallipoli,

an error of judgment as now we all know.

For eight months they fought, and all earned the name ANZAC's

they fought for their country 's pride and to survive

a costly unsuccessful campaign of bloodshed

they were cannon fodder and eaten alive.

 

Young diggers, old donkeys and abject despair reigned

all constantly pounded by a fusillade

of shots from the towering cliffs and Turkish gunners

who had the blokes trapped in a cruel enfilade.

Young Simpson saved many - he carried no weapon,

was just twenty-two when a shot found its mark.

A young stretcher bearer whose donkeys helped carry

those blokes who now knew war no walk in the park.

 

 
Some say he was brave others called him a whinger,

a Pom from South Shields who ne'er called Aus his home

But Aussies have claimed him and named him a hero

each year we revere his memory as our own.

 

And back in Australia an old man grew weary

his blue eyes grew rheumy, his back arched with pain.

He'd buried his wife 'neath the blossom of wattle

and wondered would he see his young son again.

Sixty thousand men lost - War Gods show no mercy

but this son survived, and he did make it back,

to live once again on his father’s selection

and nightly quelled demons with finest Cognac.