A poem by guest blogger Mitchell, age 11. An ode to the ANZAC poppy.

In that ancient spring, 100 years ago,

brick by brick,

the ANZAC spirit was in-scripted into the soul of a fresh nation

In that ancient spring, I was just fresh,

had no idea what was about to unfold its ugly body around me

In that ancient spring, I was the only light,

in an otherwise tragic scene

100 years on from that ancient spring, I still exist

My spirit dwells to the right side of the chest,

Looking on, from that ancient spring.