Roger, my staunch, dear friend
Roger — why did you choose to die that hot summer '84?I have many sweeter memories than your too early death.
I look up as the wild geese fly over me in arrow formationheralding the promise of an early spring.
Remember passion's chariot my wild geese companionso huge and bright in steely blue with white-walled tyresyour soft fold-top, bull-wheeled Buicksilver spare strapped astride the doorhappy charioteer — you drove her with tartan scarf wide-sweptflapping from your laughing neck in the slipstream of your joy.
Remember the secret we shared of slant-eyed Suzyyour inherited summer love, and the two campaignsof sad and wasted soulswhen you strode those two unrewarded wars with me.
Ideal-driven youngsters we followed a dreamto cleanse Malaya's steamy heart of Chinese Terroristsinstead, saddened by the premature death of your olderonly brother, shared with heroes in that now forgotten warthat doomed him to die a lonely, jungle death in Vietnamand John's far off dying broke your lonely mother's heart.
We proudly flew Australia's flag, we twothen laid him on it when he died.
I remember well your journey to purge your soul'sbitter-sweet memories. You sought a hero's deathto die — perhaps to live — once again like your brotherin the core of your distracted mother.
Later — on Africa's daily bloodstained sheetsyou found no absolutionas a mercenary you found only heartachein the crazed and raging war on Apartheid.
Lion-hearted — strong in so many ways — my heartcries out, Mate, but I cannot absolve your paina hurt no-one has ever heard, nor will againexcept in my brain, where your memory lingers on.
I hear your laughter in the freshening windyour joy in simple thingsfills the sails of each passing breezeas it stirs and open the curtains of my soul.
We dreamed to make a better worldMate, you should have waited'cos then you could have createda line of sturdy boys and winsome girls.
Instead — your family name ended with youthe Mother's love for which you yearned — was wastedin the bands of time. For she — held by tightly tetheredbonds, wrapped John's soul in hers.
Your Mother's first-born hero son, ripped out your hearton the altar-stone of her worship. You tried, my friendbut few others knew the tragic, heavy cross you boreuntil living became too hard a grief.
In dying