A single satin poppy like a drop of blood on innocent sand.

As far as the eye can see, empty turquoise, peacefulness,

In the loveliest burial ground in the world

For the thousands of ghosts of lost boys

Who were sent here to die.

Stones pierce the green like rows of shark’s teeth

Stones that name Anzacs in their teens and twenties

Few old enough to be dads, all young enough to be sons.

Antipodean voices whisper as they search

Emotion choked as names are uncovered

And Rosemary battles for remembrance

Against the fennel scorched air.