Rabaul—1945

The Garden City lies a blasted mass Of desolated homes and ruined stores; Of broken roadways covered o’er with grass, While twisted ships lie out along the shores.

The harbour marked by half a hundred bupys Where once rode south-bound Nippon merchantmen.

Adamantine the Mother Mountain’s poise, As haughty, calm and dignified as when Young Vulcan rose with crash and splash of spray From out the Bay, and Tavuvur spew’d out Its. stinking liquid mud of dusty grey . .

Man has completed what Nature left in doubt.

Where, now, the homes with social morning teas?

The Clubs and pubs and places where men meet?

The ev’ning drives beneath the tropic trees?

Nothing but desolation now—complete.

The tree-lined avenues and shady streets Are nothing less than jungle footpaths now, Where Nature’s greenery so ably meets And overcomes Man’s vain attempts.at show . . . * * * Twine gently, Vines, about this vanish’d town!

Bloom on, O Plow’rs, in riotous array; Lie lightly, Leaves, as you come tumb ling down!

Who knows? . . . Rabaul may live again some day.

—Gordon Thomas.

POW Camp, 7/6/45.