The subject matter for this poem suggested itself very early one morning at the Battle Inoculation Range when I and my Sapper assistant took time off to brew up.
The stove it glows, it roars with glee.
The tardy Sun seems slow to rise.
Swirling water for our tea
Dances, bubbles with surprise.
And dew drops tip untrodden grasses,
Glistening with the coming day.
The forest moves as darkness passes.
Night time tucks itself away.
And at the edges of the forest
Where the treetops touch the sky,
Rainbows form from transpiration,
Beauty for us there on high.
But on the stove the lid it rattles,
Turn the heat off, add the tea.
Hard to think we train for battles.
Sugar? Just a little, thanks, for me.
By Mick Shave
FILE PHOTO (July 2000): Private Adrian Crutchley and Corporal Hawkins, 7 Section, 6 Platoon, 6RAR, within canteen ‘fragged’ in a grenade attack on their position in East Timor. Photo by Corporal Kevin Piggott. See the whole photo here.