For the first time since my grandmother visited New Zealand when I was a youngster, I roused myself to get out of bed at 5am for the Dawn Service.
It was a miserable morning. According to the news, 10cm of rain in less than an hour. Strangely enough it didn't seem to be a problem, but then I was cunningly wearing thick ski pants.
A far cry from those first Anzacs and their comrades in the trenches of France.
I find a lot of things emotionally moving (just ask John how often I'm set to tears by stories of hardship and triumph), but I never really had a great affinity with poetry until sixth form. That year we studied the poetry of war. Perhaps it was the mix of history with imagery that finally clicked for me.
The poet who has remained with me the most is Wilfred Owen.
Around this time of year I revisit his poetry. It's a reminder of the type of sacrifices young men made, and the horrific experiences of war.
For those who may not have read any of these works, here are some to take a look at: