A dark somber morning of drizzle. Refreshingly cool, but not too cold, that a coat and gloves are sufficient to ward off the chill. The quiet feels heavy with suppressed traffic noise from a distance and my steps are muted on the damp path.
I woke early and walked to the nearby park for the traditional Dawn service on ANZAC Day. The dark shapes congregate around the cenotaph, whispered voices welcome old friends. The stream of humanity continues to build for remembrance of this formative occasion of our national identity. It is heart warming to know my community is strong in their dedication and commitment.
Stories are retold, sacrifice acknowledged. The Ode is read, the last post is played with a minute of revered silence. Dawn breaks on a new day with a peel of twittering wings and renewal. We recognize and stand witness to their sacrifice 100 years ago. We will remember them.
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 and in the morning
We will remember them.
From the poem For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon