(a sonnet for Anzac Day)
With all the rest you stand and wave,
and from your summer dress your arm
exalts and lifts your brave
heart too, as striding down the palm-
strewn avenue they come to raise
you up. With fluttered hand you bring
them on; your fingers writing praise
and lifting voices up to sing.
You raise your arm to wave,
and in its secret hollow: blue.
Still smooth from your last shave -
and this so very mortal part of you
just in this moment makes things good. It makes things well,
and makes a lighter journey of the heavy steps from hell.
*from John Milton's sonnet "On His Blindness"