Blessing of the Fleet
The Madonna looked less
than amused as she swayed
in time to the steps
of the six men who carried her
aloft down Hart Street
towards the river
and the waiting fleet.
This was no solemn affair
but a spectacle played out
to attract the favor
of a power moved by
pageantry and theatre.
No puritanical restraint
paraded here.
Crowds lined the way.
Half the number were Italians
who cheered and gave full throat
to their passions
and the pride in planting
a cutting of their culture
to root in the shores
of a new home.
This was the sixties.
Their infectious spill swamped
the normally staid order
of the working class precinct
and set something exciting loose.
The other half, local Anglo stock,
kept their distance and a firm grip
on exuberant display,
harboring approval within
the limits of a broad smile
and a self conscious clap.
Emotions were only let out
on Saturdays to support
the local football team
when even the meekest
could become rabid.
The Blessing of the Fleet
still plays out each year,
largely unchanged,
though kept afloat by increasingly
secular sentiments,
and sways its way through
a crowd now more a singular
chorus of noise and hard
to seperate. Fishing boats
festooned in flags blaze
triumphant under a bright
September sun.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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