(With thanks to Trish Webster for her post of this event in her MURWILLUMBAH MATTERS group.)
I get up too late
but watch on video on facebook later.
Slow procession of cars in the rain.
People watching from under umbrellas or shop roofs.
Then, after a long gap, the repetitive drums.
The small contingents. (We are a small town.)
Those who march and those who straggle.
— Why do I suddenly weep? —
The State Emergency Services van.
And then the schools, by far the largest groups.
Shepherding teachers.
Parents on the sidelines with cameras.
Clapping.
‘LEFT RIGHT LEFT! LEFT RIGHT LEFT!’
the male voice shouts,
followed by a burst of music.
Now I’m a small child in Launceston
hearing the bagpipes
from high on my Dad’s shoulders,
both looking out for his mates.
Couldn’t fight himself for his gammy leg,
and couldn’t march either —
though he was always away at camp
in my first years of life, training
against possible invasion.
Onscreen, a man with a child on his shoulders
moves back under the awnings.
The fire trucks crawl past now,
always popular, cheery.
The end.
I watch all over again.
25/4/23
Note: I was born in November 1939, at the beginning of the Second World War.
Note for non-Aussies: ANZAC Day is an annual event held on April 25th, commemorating Australians and New Zealanders who lost their lives in all the military operations we have been involved in since World War I. There is a dawn service, followed by a march, in every town and city in Australia. It's a very big deal. This poem describes the latest one in this town, and also my memories of those that happened in my first home town when I was a child.
I'm sharing this with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #74: The Act of Paying Attention. I'm glad I had the unexpected opportunity to pay attention to this year's march in this town, rather than, as usual, watching the telecast of the Sydney march.
