Tuur Verheyde
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.
