Country war memorial

Country war memorial Half an acre, roughly mown, a single row of twenty-one neat blocks of grey cement, each occupying just the space a head would, resting on the clay. On every block, a bright brass plaque: In memory of name, branch of service Lest we forget. Three Hansens, two McNeills. A bunch of plastic pink carnations; two white roses, limp, scorched by frost. Oak leaves in drifts against the fence. — Bob Morrow God’s place This was the house of a tired god, one who was making-do until retirement, letting things go, watching the paint peel, suffering the fowls of the air to roost in the gables, ignoring rosy glass fractured by the stones of the scornful; a neglected house assaulted side and front by angry traffic, surrounded by cafes of reflection and sellers of fine raiment, its message-board out-spruiked by blandishments of usurers. Yet this was the house of a god of green pastures and still waters, a restorer of souls, a guide on the hard paths of righteousness, a friend in the valleys of shadow — but an old god set in old ways unappealing to the clappers and stampers on the hillsides who shout their hallelujahs by the score, a god whose debts were unforgiven and whose chattels have been flogged but whose prime half-hectare has soared beyond belief; An Opportunity Heaven Sent, cries the agent’s board. — B. N. Oakman

B. N. Oakman writes poetry and short fiction that appears in literary magazines, newspapers and anthologies. An academic economist, he has taught in universities in Australia and England. He lives in Central Victoria.