The Twelfth Morning–Templemore Avenue

THE TWELFTH MORNING—TEMPLEMORE AVENUE

Bunting, fluttering, skipping in the early morning draught
A long lonely note of a fife carried on the breeze
Strong smell of burnt wood drifting– catching every breath
Bleary eyed and weary we head towards the assemblage in the Avenue.

Excited murmurings-expectations as high as every year before
Momentum building— the babble growing louder as the morning draws on
Ever closer to the send off- the initiation of the seven mile march
The culmination of twelve months toil and preparation.

Mid morning and the sky a glorious cloudless blue,
The pavements thronged—a vibrantly coloured mass of cheering crowds
An acclamation of the assembled lines of musicians and marchers
Encouraging remarks and shouts and calls—escalating, growing ever loud.

Sturdy souls exert themselves in hefting up the banner
While smaller versions strain against the strings–holding taut
The standard—lofted proud o’er the masses
Proclaiming Royal allegiance or battles that we fought.

A flurry of activity—a movement en masse—jostling for position
Last minute checks—on uniforms—on flutes—on tack—nerves steeled
Throats cleared—a drum roll—a booming prologue for the long day ahead
The multitudes erupt in elation and its Onward—To The Field.