“ANZAC 2026“
A faint drift of camp‑smoke moves across the oval
as neighbours gather in a loose ring,
boots scuffing dew‑dark grass.
Someone reads from an old diary,
paper soft at the folds,
its words settle over us
like a weather front passing slow across the range.
The march is smaller this year,
but each step lands with its own weight.
Kids lean from verandas with cardboard poppies,
a brass line warms the air near the cenotaph,
and the crowd parts gently
so, an older man can steady himself
before placing a wreath cut fresh from his yard.
By afternoon the town thins back into its rhythms—
shops half‑open, dogs restless at the fence.
A few of us stay near the memorial garden,
letting the day breathe out around us,
aware of how these gatherings
shape the way we carry our shared work forward
long after the bugle has faded.
.
