The day, November twenty second, nineteen sixty three.
I rode to Woolies after school on my first shopping spree.
A scouting camp was coming up, I needed bread and milk.
Along with Irish stew, baked beans and tucker of that ilk.
The other side of Earth was still asleep twelve hours behind.
The thought that history’s course would soon be changed, not on our
mind.
We woke next morning, twenty third, to hear the grim report.
The U.S. President had seen his four year term cut short.
“It looks as though the baddies got him, but they won’t succeed,
There’ll be someone as good to take his place,” the boss decreed.
In two thousand sixteen, I toured Washington D.C.
Taking in the Capitol and Australian embassy.
But on the way between the two I saw a building bleak.
I wondered what it was and stepped inside to have a peek.
I soon found out that at this site, in state his body lay.
While fire-side, I sang some Elvis, half a world away.
The moment at St Matthews touched a tender chord in me.
A post-script bitter sweet to that weekend in sixty three.
And though there hasn’t been a leader quite like John since then.
We well may ask ourselves “If not us, who, If not now, when?”.
– Paul Wincen, via email
