The professional procession,
of berets and caps in columns;
Adorned with feathers,
greens, reds and blues;
Bearskins or sashes.
Arms swings in pride,
their troop never forgotten.
Memories of the fallen,
resolute ,they remain alive.
Battle honoured,
loyalty eternal,
dignity etched in lines,
this now their theatre of war.
Dressed in black, the widows,
silver crosses glisten,
sisters shared in sorrow,
standing in place of their men.
Two thousand and nine,
young march alongside,
already veterans to war,
comrades lost in fight.
Wreaths swing to the cenotaph,
all badges, countries in scent.
Blazing scarlet poppy’s,
laid in empathy upon stone,
by servicemen or royals,
or the solemn left behind.
Brass bands, stomping feet,
bass drums, clicking cameras.
Orders bellow, silence falls.
Big ben, as guns fire,
last post echo’s emotions,
turn salute, about turn!
Surround by sand,
Afghanistan’s searing sun.
Serving still, they salute,
as the padre reads prayers.