Hal G.P. Colebatch: The old Bristile exhibition

The old Bristile exhibition

There was a glassed-in rotunda in the paddock,

Along with a witch’s castle, and other delights,

Toy soldiers marched on an endless belt,

Families picnicked. One of those sights

The guide-books never mentioned, yet unique

In its own hardly-noticed way,

With a sort of innocence, a small essence

Of childhood wonder on a sunny day.

Who bought them, dressed the ranks, installed

The machinery that kept them on the move?

Someone long forgotten, bent

To create this strange little act of love.

Slouch-hatted diggers, Britain’s Royal Marines

All in perfect step, rifles at the slope,

The Queen’s gold coach and horses.

Wherever they went, I hope

They are still marching somewhere.

In their way a work of art. These toys

In their simple innocence created

Real memories of delight, real joys,

More than many could aspire to,

Like the magpie larks in the grass,

The yachts on the summer river

Not far away: the soldiers behind the glass

Under tall, lemon-scented gum-trees

While the unexpected show

Of pink galahs conferred in undertones

As they watched the procession go

Round on its endless belt:

Life-guards with drawn swords,

Bell-bottomed sailors,

We watched and needed no words

To know the presence

Of some queer kind of spell,

As petty as you like, such

A little thing to see or tell,

But a real magic all the same,

A window to faery, perhaps,

Something unforgotten, a glimpse to joy

Found on no maps.

Hal G.P. Colebatch