The other night his moving words flowed from

a TV set that flickered jerky scenes

of war, so terrible, that it was thought

that this must be the war to end all wars.

They overwhelmed my numbed minds feeble strength,

as clouds of gas borne by a morning breeze

would roll in waves across as bleak a place

as man or beast was ever sent to fight.

But unlike those who reeled before the gas,

their young lungs tortured by its searing stench,

skins burnt and scared by chemicals so dread

and eyes, once clear, that streamed in awful pain.

I wept in rage and anguish deeply felt

for those young men who gave their lives for us.

Leaving their youth in stinking, clinging mud

so far away from those they loved so well.

And though my eyes have viewed these scenes before

and though I know a little of this war.

It was his words that broke the aching dam

held back, pent up, unshed for all these years.

Not just some clever words to fill a page.

Not sentimental trash or empty phrase.

But rather words of beauty and of hope

born from a love of all the living things

that grace a life and give it greater meaning.

Memories of verdant hills in gorse and heather.

The shafts of sunlight through an old beach wood.

The wild blue bells and daffodils so clean

or dogs that work the sheep so skillfully.

These are the precious gifts that we were given.

The chance to pick our way through buttercups

or pluck a primrose from a grassy bank

unfettered by tyranny and terror.

Free to live our little lives as best we may

ever thankful for the beauty of this world.

These the things he told of and left to us.

David Garlick, Victoria, November, 1994