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Each year they come Shaking history from its sleep Forcing it to its feet, to walk with them And hold alive these wounding memories. Their stand is that of faith: Loyal to their past at any cost. They weld within through Vehement dislike of those outside. Their view is that of creed: Uphold and sharpen all that Separates and makes different. And now as each year they are Prisoners of their own clinging. Huddling and cowering in minds Which see all change as threat Unsettling, unravelling. Down the road they march Lanky sons loose at the edges, The fathers, short-legged with sunken eyes, Fixed at the centre, banners held upright, March in step to thud of drum, screech of pipe, Clutching their withering past. |
