The Bugle

The Bugle

 By Christopher Reynolds

In a small country town
In the back of beyond
I stopped to take a look around
The antique shop
And search for treasures unfound

I wandered down aisles
Of junk and dust
Of glassware on sideboards
And tools against walls
So many things hidden
So many things just lost

Yet, there out of sight
And under a table
Lay a horn of sorts
Forgotten
I picked it up
It had a rope
For not a horn I held
But a bugle

I wiped the grime
With the back of my sleeve
And there on the front
Were words to read
‘Lest We Forget’
Was all it said
I knew what it meant
We should remember the dead

I looked inside as if to see
A tale of times of war
Of men who’d died
With pride
To hold this bugle high
Then realised …..
This task had now come to me

The old bugle brown with grime
Had once rung out a call
In the heat of battle
In the sorrow of war
Men and women fought and died
For this nation mine

I gave the bugle a croaky blast
A call to arms echoing the past
I heard it shout across the room
Come stand alert
You citizens all
Remember those
Who charged the shore
I blew on it once more

I’ll blow for you this bugle
A message from the fallen
This land we call home
Was purchased with blood
So we are known Australian
Lest We Forget