A bugle in the frosty dawn,
each note hanging in the air,
then falling into silence
like the guns did, over there.

A voice recites a poem,
the vast crowd standing hushed;
every head is bowed,
every soul is touched.

Soon the men will march,
their memories aflame,
their banners held aloft,
each battle has a name.

And we who watch will know
that what we have was born
in blood and sacrifice,
on that first grim Anzac morn.

Photo from Pexels by Pixabay