The Parade <br /> <br />Where the church had stolen the crowd, <br />they spew out excited now, a great <br />chattering assault on the lonely streets. <br />Populations of town and village converge, <br />an orgy of underclass and privileged alike. <br />Stigmas are left aside, the infirm, the young, <br />the disenfranchised blend into a family, <br />but only for today. <br /> <br />The creeping groan of the bagpipes leads <br />and toddlers hide their fear in a shoulder. <br />A snake-head edges through, <br />dispersing the voluminous mass as <br />a collection of souls reduces main roadways <br />to slender unkempt trails and paths. <br />Alcoholics, sad and separated feign painted smiles, <br />share cursory waves of recognition with each other. <br /> <br />Rural children become townies for the day, <br />their accordions respirate as ceilí bands <br />one by one pass by like lungs, <br />heaving with their Patrician cries. <br />Young whistlers march proud, <br />oversized sashes of allegiance <br />flapping on their arched, tiny chests. <br />‘Mol an óige agus tiocfaidh siad’ <br /> <br />Praise them, for they will come, surely <br />and make the cynics succumb to laughter. <br />The music begins to die and brigade sirens <br />dispel the smell of a roasted pig. <br />With a reversed whoosh <br />the mob is sucked in like a backdraft <br />to the bars dotted on every street. <br />Into the falling dusk, faraway whistles deplete <br /> <br /> <br />‘Mol an óige agus tiocfaidh siad’ means' praise the young and they will come' in Gaelige, the language of the free Irish.<br /><br />Sonja Broderick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-parade/
