The ghosts are walking

by the Turkish olive trees,

Down sandstone streets

where the sinking sun

lights the last post

and a roll-up

For this town's setting sons

and daughters,

A century after its most grievous

Gallipoli slaughter.

 

In tee shirts and tattoos

the still-moving women and men

parade from pub to pub,

Heedless of fate,

they carouse and karaoke,

Tracing and retracing

ancestors' thousand-year footsteps,

They will not stand still

and cannot wait.

 

They gather to remember

family and friends,

Everyone they've ever loved

or even only just met,

And drink and jest

as day turns to night,

And fornicate and fight

to forget.