24/04/2026
Taking a moment today to reflect on the freedom we enjoy because of the sacrifices made by others. Forever grateful for our serviceman and women, past and present.
"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them."
To Hell For Home
The dawn breaks cold on a jagged line,
Where the ghosts of the ANZACs tread.
A century’s dust on a silvered shrine,
For the living, and for the dead.
They didn’t go for the glory of kings,
Or the lure of a distant loam;
They traded the peace that the morning brings
To walk through Hell for Home.
From the searing scrub of the Great Frontier,
To the mud of a Flanders field,
They carried the weight of a quiet fear,
But their spirits would never yield.
They fought in the green of the jungle’s breath,
And the foam of the salt-sprayed tide,
Staring down the cold silence of death
With a brother close by their side.
And what of the ones who were left behind,
To fight on the home-front soil?
With a heavy heart and a fractured mind,
Through the years of hollow toil.
The mothers, the partners, the children left,
Who sacrificed all they knew—
Living a life of a love bereft,
While the skies of the south stayed blue.
They bore the silence of empty rooms
And the dread of the telegram’s light;
They are the keepers of garden blooms
That grew through a lonely night.
For those who returned to the southern sun,
With the shadows deep in their eyes,
Whose battles continued when firing was done
Underneath our wide, peaceful skies.
We hold up the lamp for the scars that they bear,
And the families who guided them back,
For the patience, the love, and the quiet prayer
That lit up a darkened track.
But for those who sleep where the poppies sway,
Or beneath the coral and sand,
Whose names are etched in the light of the day
On the heart of their native land—
They are the silence between the notes,
The salt in the crashing foam,
The legacy that forever floats
On the path from Hell to Home.
So stand in the hush of the rising light,
And feel the weight of the debt you bear.
For the peace you breathe and the morning bright
Was bought with a life and a desperate prayer.
It is not enough to simply bow your head,
Or to leave a wreath in the loam;
We owe our lives to the quick and the dead
Who marched through Hell for Home.
We repay them now in the way we live,
In the strength of the land we keep,
In the mercy and grace we choose to give
While the weary and fallen sleep.
Carry their fire, uphold their name,
Let your gratitude be your vow;
For the price they paid is a burning flame
That demands our service now.
Lest We Forget.