at each minute
on the minute
guttural, mute and sombre,
the great bell beckons
as a distant muffled cannon
measures out the crump of boots
a clink of sword,
a harness rattle
unscripted shy applause
breaks like pass the parcel
a sound somehow out of place,
brass fugues bellow softly
sober tunes well-rehearsed
baptise each bowed head
each damp downcast eye
*
© Graham R Sherwood 09/22
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 