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ANZAC Parade

Vivienne Plumb

One woman wears three medals and walks with a frame. Good onya, love. It's her bloody best day. Look at the littlies wearing their Grandad's medals. Cry, they make me cry. An enthusiastic Japanese couple clap as each unit turns into Elizabeth Street. Syria Greece Crete Libya Papua the Pacific Islands and each military band plays their personal version of Waltzing Matilda.

The medals the uniforms the wheelchairs the walking sticks the drums the supple young marching girls twirling their imperial purple flags. A lump in my throat and the greasy smell of barbecued sausages. Wrap a slab of white bread around that and get some good red sauce on it, love.

The pubs are overflowing onto the sidewalks and the flirting woman in Hungry Jacks sports a bold sprig of rosemary in her hair. Smoke belches form the pit. The verdant grass has been burnt. The alpha the omega the salvation. A trumpet, and the first beast has the face of a lion. An official blessing on the power and the glory.