Member Poem

Burgettstown bred, I sit on steel atop a
Bouganville ficus close to Bagana near the
Torokina River directing artillery fire by radio.
Nearby flares rain down on Hill 260.
The Southern Cross appears, and the
infantry slips behind concertina wire. Saint
Barbara, bless these powdered eggs and
dehydrated potatoes, guide our ordnance
and steady our field glasses that we may
observe what has to/gets to be.

published by Grasslimb