The Very Day

A poem for the Jubilee by Glyn Maxwell

"People born on the Queen's Accession Day, 6 February 1952, are invited to Golden Jubilee parties hosted by The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh" - The Jubilee website

Those who were born the very day the whole shebang
Got started are invited to come back again,

To sidle past a length of table in the sun,
And find their names in wedding-script beside someone

They couldn't have expected. Those who went to school
And found it far from home and then home further still

May hang their coats in hundreds and proceed to where
The lawn begins. Those who believe they were and are

Important will be greeting them, and those whose days
Grew suddenly the same will reach for passing trays.

Those who have jobs to do will catch the waiter's eye,
Lifting a glass in sunlight, here he comes, and he

Is one of those who serves and never had a say,
So never was unwelcome. Those who went away

Come late and are not sorry, but have found no one
Too bothered by it; scoffing at the table plan

They see themselves. Those whom the whole world believes
Ridiculous find shady corners for their wives

Of fifty years. Those whose every second thought
Is of a face they'll never alter or forget

Spread out embroidered napkins on their aching knees
And comment on the loveliness, and, next to these,

Those who lost one suddenly, when she was young,
Sit back and ask the nearest stranger anything.

Out of eyesight, out of earshot, out of reach,
The tables stretch,

And spell out to the sky:
This is a day we mark to mark another day,

A message only birds are there to comment on,
Which they may well tomorrow when the thing is gone,

May speculate it may itself have been a song,
Mysterious in form and not around for long -

Then they will fly away, but that's tomorrow. Those
Born the very day are drinking to the lees,

Considering the odds against their being here,
Considering them short. Those born the very year

Have pocketed their name-tags and befriended folks
At will. A woman's voice says "in the coming weeks"

And quiet spreads like cloud. Those born within a mile
Drink up and stare, have miles to drive. The tables fill

With spaces, while the breeze between the tucked-in chairs
Hails from the coast and rattles with polite applause

The cups and saucers. Sunlight of late afternoon
Makes islanders of everybody. Those who've gone

Needed to go, they said so, it's forgotten why,
And those who stay are waiting to know why they stay

From anyone still talking. Twilight comes and goes
Unnoticed and the gleam of candles quickens those

Whose eyes search out like watchmen from a frozen shore
What's still to be commemorated, star by star.

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