To the Lost
Haibun written for my father, on Anzac Day
‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun...’
In the years when he was able, on April 25th my dad pinned on his left breast his WWII medals including the Africa Star, tucked a sprig of rosemary in his buttonhole, then took the tram to Hobart's Queen’s Domain for the Anzac Day memorial service at the Cenotaph. There, diggers gathered to pray and remember comrades lost in battle, or dead after they returned from disease, grief or despair. Since my father died there have been many wars and countless deaths. This year there are no dawn services, no commemoration at Gallipoli in Turkey, no wreath-laying, no marches, no public ceremonies. We’re told we must commemorate at home. Light a candle at dawn at the end of our driveways. Recite the commemorative Ode ‘For the Fallen’. Play ‘Reveille’ on the radio. Some old soldiers are pushing a century. In this time of separateness they cannot march with their brigade in wheelchairs pushed by their granddaughters, or gather afterwards in RSL clubrooms to play two-up with old cobbers.
‘... and in the morning, we will remember them.’
sunrise gilds
a teenage bugler
suburban ‘Last Post’
.
Posted on the private international Facebook group, Haiku in the time of Covid-19, April 25, 2020