Good Friday at Delegate

Good Friday.
Are we eating fish?
Going to church?
Reflecting on Christ's sacrifice?
No we are down at the river,
With the rest of the townsfolk of Delegate.
Baptising?
No we are gambling on the outcome of a race.
One hundred and nine starters.
There is pizza,
Baked in the town's cob-oven.
And an Easter egg hunt,
And boat races for the kids.
The playground is a riot of squeals.
The men beer in hand discuss,
The weather and stock prices.
The women, with one eye on their children discuss,
The nocturnal habits of newborns.
And at two o'clock  it's on.
The crowd moves slowly along the bank,
The tension builds as the field spreads out.
Their are no scratchings.
Competitors that become snagged are pushed back into the flowing stream.
Till at  last they cross the finish.
Great nets scoop up the multi- coloured plastic throng,
So that they may be available to race again next year.
And so ends the Delegate Duck Races for another year.