The Spouse this afternoon I noticed a local mother with babe-in-arms standing motionlessly at the foot of the Invercargill War Memorial. She didn’t seem to notice as I shot the snap—
a decent period after she’d departed before wandering over t0 capture an angle I’d missed on previous visits.
I was feeling quite testy: I know that life goes on (and indeed it does, for We The Living) and that a hundred years ago (and face it, endlessly since) life stopped unjustifiably short for many millions.
SO WHAT WAS THAT
lady thinking? Was the name of some relative inscribed there … or was she wondering if one day her own babe-in-arms might perhaps star in similar fashion?
I arrived and looked up.
A timely gust rattled a moving object and I noticed—
—not far above my head a wee crucifix that someone had placed alongside the mindless graffiti of people too young to know and too thick to give a damn anyway.
I stepped back and angled upwards—
—to score this view. And yes, I come here often—but never on show days, never when the bands are playing and the soldiers marching; never when theatricals peak with a trembling Last Post and strong men have tears in their eye.
When I visit it is as a thief in the night or as the young Mother with her child, and I depart as unobtrusively as I arrive—
—while the beat goes on, verily …
… the beeeeeat goes onnnnnnnn …