The Ulster Grenadiers

The Ulster Grenadiers

Crossing the town square,

We see them in the distance

Prepping, the grime screen

Of drizzle barely disguising

Their turquoise uniforms, turned

Pale green in the evening gleam.

We walk ahead to await them

At the Menin Gate, at eight,

When our bugles bellow them

In. They soon begin their march.

It thunders through the Friday

Eve, startling its yawns of leisure.

In the silence between the Last

Post bugle blows, the flute band

Plays, their sonorous song burrowing

Into the body with its booming beat.

The Last Post done, they solemnly

Retreat through the downpour dirge.

We follow on, failing to keep pace

And step with their march as rain

Clatters down on applauding streets.