One hundred years on,
And we are marching.
Not the strapping youth of a new country,
The descendants are grey, pot-bellied grandsons,
And wide-hipped grand-daughters.
Age has wearied them.
They tramp along slowly.
The Lighthorse re-enactors,
Are heavier in the saddle, than their predecessors.
A single infantryman moves sprightly,
Despite his hard leather boots.
He's set,
With his bag of newly baked 'hard tack'.
Original recipe, courtesy of Arnotts.
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