‘His and Time’s Ambiguity’

Time is crying, seconds are screaming

Hark, so Hark! For I wanted more than home,

‘animal’ and ‘Scum’ and ‘Savage’ these names

lying beneath the veil of ignorance.

War- Peace- but nothing happens to us,

An escape, from this I welcomed

it seemed Master Time provided, with word

perhaps I would be equal, equal with my fellow men.

 Australian men, this country defend

men of this country for there was none more then I!

As this ancient land was my kin, the wattle my home—

my escape from ‘Terra Nullius’ was noted in monochrome.

But rejection dominated my choice

the Eucalyptus and I share the same laws

laws that claim I am as the kangaroo

beneath them, below all, bound to ground level.

Will Time slay man’s petty laws to reign truth?

Slowly does Time move, but away I go

to fight- I had lied of my own culture

from our neighbour to the east they believe

I am Maori, my cousin Indian,

Indigenous was not of humanity for the Commonwealth,

yet on the battleship of ANZACS we are equal.

*                           *                          *

A sun’s course we are trained as a soldier,

1916, mud’s haven, I arrived.

 Time hands us a new testing challenge,

cultures away from a somewhat safety.

My choice was it fair and just for my kin? 

A course concludes, He has consumed many,

him and Time a pairing of compliments,

now I am a ‘mate’ to whom would be foes

as matchsticks we stand awaiting the spark…

The Serge’s pocket watch that beats and beats

until a shrill! From the whistle sends us

up-over. Excitement, fretfulness!

Death’s intent is colourless-

you duck! But move! My mate sees Time and Him

they dance beneath the darkness, within war

as moon’s smile disappears behind them.

Their performance reminds me of my home,

Time brings both sweet happiness and horror

but Death is brought by the oppressors,

hovering e’er patiently for their plans,

to force many of us into his realm.

                              *                          *                       *

But here He is no head master as such-

Time as his partner waits for the moment

to plunder the last breath of those who fall.

Their laughter floats with the tumult of men,

cackling, crackling concoction of chaos!

Their play began with a cry I heard a few long months ago,

a digger lying beneath the dancing-

slowly moving they bowed to greet him,

but no! Crawling I stopped their new handshake,

‘welcome not their hand’ I had told my mate.

‘but hold mine that won’t lead you amidst this’. 

‘Your hand is of filth, I’m glad for their hand,

I trust not those with palms of yours’…

Age had graced the men with lines of judgement

brothers of mud and fear we were to be,

but his lines voiced another relation.

But friends had been formed from natural foes,

many that have buried the memory.

As Him and Time have subserved my anguish,

they are still in servitude of my foes.

We are confused, in this time of unrest

this war halts progress, removes the revolt

all are in greater servitude of Time and Death.

They control our progress, nothing is ours.

They do not care for humanity's judgements,

parading above, with no thinking of men.   

Death’s actions to my mates and Time to our war

have given a gift of understanding,

the blood-our blood of men does bind diggers,

this war’s performance of morbid weaponry

brings mutual affection to us here.

Him and Time, as with my newly forged brothers,

are coloured blind and see no prejudice.




Picture credit: @koorikicksart