The night before Christmas has less angst
than the eve of this celebration – we don’t
see it a fête normally, but then it isn’t any
ordinary suggestion a placatory tot of rum
wont ameliorate. ANZAC Day, in its own a
vaguely confused conglomeration of battle
reminiscences pooled into harmony, ideas
of the supposedly ‘greater’ common sense
I’ve seen more children marching at dawn
than the sad veterans I knew, recognising
a few as heirs of fellows and friends, once
or twice removed, but I’ll take my chance
solitude of a rum tonight before a sunrise
demands the next impossible advance
© 24 April 2013, I. D. Carswell
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