ANZAC DAY

I rose at 5am this morning. Today is ANZAC day. Intrigue, admiration and a sense of duty have propelled me from sleep. Typically it’s a damp Wellington morning as I step out. I head down Cuba Street, one of Wellingtons busier thoroughfares, it becomes apparent there isn’t another soul about. The silhouette of a broken shop manakin is the only human form that I share this ungodly hour with. Towards the bottom end of Cuba, others begin to appear. Couples link arms against the wind, heads down. By the time I reach Lambton Quay people are converging together. The familiar sights of a pre dawn modern city abound. A Bakery truck driver checks his delivery sheet; Joggers do their bit to wear down Wellington’s walkways. As Lambton begins to curve towards Molesworth and Parliament, the Hollow thud of an artillery gun stirs everything into action. What had been a precession of sleepwalkers now becomes a mass of people striding out to reach their destination. Every bird in the neighbourhood squawks into life as if they had been waiting for this confirmation of daybreak. I round the corner to see a mass of people stood silently in the breeze. These are the ‘dawnies.’ Men and women, young and old, representatives from many creeds and nationalities here to pay their respects to the fallen. I pick my spot towards the side of the crowd as a Turkish ambassador makes an address about the Gallipoli landings. As he finishes the crowd in front of me parts slightly. Two young women no older than 18 are making their way out of the throng, heading to the back. They carry in their arms an infant, each wrapped in pink ‘Dora The Explorer’ duvets. Following the service people part ways, head to work, head for breakfast, head back to bed. By the time I’m back at the flat many of Wellingtons inhabitants stir and awaken to enjoy their public holiday, some blissfully unaware or unconcerned of the vigil that has been held in their countrymans honour.