It’s not our nuclear moment
or our Gallipoli.
We stand at our gates and letterboxes under the night black sky.
We listen to the Last Post
of the bare bugle
desolate yet strong in the air
of this so different dawn.
Huddles of neighbours appear fragile in the dark.
Children
old people
and in between.
Here comes the new day
with a blood streaked sky to the east.
The night’s last stars
question us.
What if we are the last generations on the planet?
What if we are the first of the new?
What to remember?
What to forget?
What to cherish?
The dawn is a trembling candle lighting answers
inside the questions.
This dawn breaks us open.
We are being human.
© Anne Powell
ANZAC Day 25 April 2020