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THE MARCHING BAND
In the distance I could hear the marching bands,
A little discordant for instruments held in cold hands,
Lips bled on the cold metal as they had to blow,
As through the streets triumphantly the did go.

Gilded uniforms were not for warmth but for style,
I stood in a sheltered doorway, they’d pass me in a while
Here they come rejoicing, playing some merry song,
They looked cold and grey as they noisily tramped along.

What is the celebration, why these bands all playing?
Then a strange thing happened just as I was thinking,
The bands faded into the snow not to be seen again,
Did I imagine those musicians suffering cold and pain?

No one else had heard them playing, seen them go along,
The streets, playing their pleasing ,beloved triumphal song.
What was the meaning of this vision that was just for me?
This poem won’t be finished for I was called home early.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson 27 January 2004