She wept, seeing Gallipoli chiselled into the cenotaph marble. No rose-tinted remembrances for those poppy fields.

Sixty years hadn’t wearied one precious memory; amongst azaleas beside the billabong, they’d consummated love under the ancient red gum tree. He kissed her lips, licked her nipples and, amazingly, her cunny too. She moaned in ecstasy as his manhood impaled wet folds. Orgasms, wonderful orgasms, rocked her.

His troopship left; only love letters, constantly re-read, returned.

Placing her commemorative lapel-poppy among other paper flowers, she whispered to the daughter he never knew, “Family duty’s been done. I couldn’t bear a grandson to volunteer.”