Poem - Esther Nea-Smith

At The Cenotaph

By Esther Nea-Smith

Hallowed, that spot, in Martin Place,

Where light and shadow interlace,

Where dead and living come and go,

Where ghost-feet march with rythmic flow,

Where fragile flowers perfume the air,

And hearts oft glow with fervent prayer.

There a soldier and a sailor stand,

Bronze figures guard that sacred land.

In attitude attesting Right

They symbolise a nation's might.

As they gaze on retrospectively

Those silent figures e'er must see

Tears bedimming saddened eyes,

Wreaths of flowers, from which arise

Like incense to the skies above

A perfume that bespeaks of love.

Love, because the flowers there

Were placed by hands that fold in prayer,

Were kissed by lips bedewed with tears

Of sorrow, borne throughout the years.

Sorrow for loved ones gone before,

Australia’s sons who fell at War.

Those Warriors brave who nobly fought,

Whose replicas in bronze we wrought.

Yet can we see those faces dear,

Yet hear them march, Ah! still we cheer,

Yet hear a ghostly trumpet blast,

Yea, hear it though the years have passed.

Still hear the bayonets sickening clash,

Canons roar with frightening crash,

Gunfire’s awesome booming sound

And see that cross on earthy mound.

(O God. Thy Cross aches humiin heart,

What anguish, Lord, it was to part) . . .

The pain, the pain— the depth of sorrow

O sting of Death! O endless morrow.

But they come back when moonbeams pale

Come back to earth but to inhale

The fragrance that is rising high

Love ascending to the sky.

At the Cenotaph maybe they kneel

To gather tears like dew that fell

From loving wife . . . a grey-haired Mother,

A Father, Sister, Friend or Brother.

O at that very sacred place,

Where light and shadow interlace,

Where dead and living meet again,

Where stand those bronze— those silent men.

Let memory sweet fore’er keep pace

With winged Time in Martin Place.

Let flowers repay our lasting debt,

Lest we forget! Lest we forget!