Our wars were surer then. The weekly news
was reeled in black and white. The issues, too,
were like that — sharp, unshaded and we served
an undivided country. Later when
our wars were screened in colour, children burned
inside our living rooms and issues grew
unfocussed, blurred, uncertain — people screamed
in city streets — our streets, our people. They
were right of course, we saw old icons fade,
saw marchers step to other drummers and
a nation agonising in an age
that saw the end of absolutes. But now
we’re back to black and white and thirty-nine,
those older drums have summoned us. Our eyes
bifocus on the dome beneath the hill  —
we march on out of step and out of time,
but  absolutely right — and doubtless still.