ANZAC Day, Bathurst 2009

We join the small crowdand stand awkwardly

kicking dried leaves

while the kids fidget in the gutter,

listening to the skirl of the approaching pipes.

Then they come,
withered like old leaves and as grey as the sky -
a little platoon of tweed coats,
wending its way up the street.

Some are in wheelchairs and cars,
waving tired arms to the watching crowd,

others still marching,

eyes straight, head up.

There was a time
these men once young
heard applause like thunder
and grateful cheers
as they marched these same streets.

Our smattering of claps
is hesitant and half hearted.
I look down,
half-ashamed to add my own
to this paltry offering.

Then I turn and see a young woman

weeping as they go past,

and another sitting on the steps

reading stories of the ANZACs

to her daughter.