Despite the Broken Waves That Landed on the Beach

Gallipoli: The Turks had the advantage of the high ground. Wave upon wave they came, desperately defending their land. What a nightmare, a disaster! From the accounts I have read, a brutal campaign where the spirit of Anzac was born. Each year we remember them at dawn parades; we should never forget the price of freedom. 

Despite the Broken Waves 

That Landed on the Beach

Through stealth they came, upon the sea,
In frail boats bound for destiny.
Their oars drew silence, breath by breath,
Across the waiting shore of death.

Some reached their marks through smoke and flame,
While others fell where morning came.
The cliffs loomed black, then rose in light,
Like claws that tore the edge of night.

Each ragged ridge, each gouged ravine,
Reached back toward the deep, unseen.
The hills, like beasts that dared to stand,
Held tight the blood that fed the sand.

The waves came rolling, proud and bold,
Their foaming crests like banners rolled.
They sought to tame the rising tide,
Yet found their strength was swept aside.
The wind screamed through the gaping cliffs,
Its mournful cry like shattered whiffs.
The sea, relentless, groaned and tore,
A dirge that haunted every shore.

At Gallipoli, on Suvla’s strand,
Both sides were claimed by ruthless hand.
The Turks, the Anzacs, none were spared,
All swept by death, all caught unprepared.
Each tortured shout, each final plea,
Echoed along the rocky sea.

They hurled themselves upon the strand,
Where ghosts of soldiers made their stand.
Beneath those claws of rocky scree,
Each cry lost within the endless sea.

Through ravines scarred by fire and pain,
The shattered hopes flowed down like rain.
Washed from the slopes, the blood and clay,
Returned to sea and slipped away.
The hills whispered with every gust,
Their hollow groans recalled the dust.
The waves, relentless, clawed and ground,
Each sorrow swallowed, lost, unbound.

The angry surf, with claw and roar,
Still beats against that haunted shore.
It gnaws the hills, it drags the scree,
To claim its sons from Gallipoli.

A ghostly shipwreck, half-concealed,
Its splintered bones in silence sealed.
Still marks the place, through storm and foam,
Where lost souls found no way back home.

Each wave that breaks, each ebbing breath,
Repeats the endless prayer of death.
It grinds the shore, it smooths the stone,
Till all are one — none left alone.

The sea turned red, the foam ran wild,
It mourned each mother’s fallen child.
And though its heart could never save,
It guards their names beneath each wave.

Now rocks are sand, and sand is bone,
Their dust and memory overthrown.
Yet still the tide extends its hand,
To touch that sacred strip of land.

By day the sun scorched life away,
Through stench and flies, through blood and clay.
Setting red — to mark where fallen lay,
Dysentery claimed its prey.

The air was thick with fevered cries,
Men hollow-eyed with thirst and pain,
They watched as hope within them dies,
And cursed the sun that mocked their slain.
The wind wailed through each ravine,
A chorus for the broken scene.
The surf’s deep groan, the gulls’ harsh call,
Haunted the hills and men and all.

Crimson dusks — where they passed away.

And still it rolls, and still it cries,
Beneath the searing Dardan skies.
Each wave that breaks, each soul released,
Becomes the sea’s eternal priest.

Though ages pass and tempests rage,
The shore remembers war’s cruel stage.
And the sun still burns through every day,
Crimson at night — to remind all who dare.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Revised Nov 2025)