I lift one sore foot from the stony road
My boot is hot and heavy
I put it down and lift the other
I must keep in time with the drum beat.
The track wends through fields
Ripening grain waving in the breeze
And orchards laden with black Bucks cherries
May the war pause long enough for folk to reap and eat.
Those folk come out to watch us
Lining the dusty way
Hats off and heads lowered
They know we were beaten
They know many died
And the loss is bitter.
They come to mourn our Leader
The best commander was ours
Brave and betrayed
Now he is on this cart
Our tattered standard drapes the coffin.
I march with honour in our colours
I march with my musket reversed
The sun is beating on our bare heads
I feel the horses are weeping with us.
Now the trees shelter us
Light shimmering through gentle green
The road gets steeper
We rest to quench our thirst.
The last climb is crippling
We glimpse the little church
Black-clad mourners wait
But they cannot enter
No one now or later
Will spoil our hero’s grave.
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Photo: Model of a Greencoat soldier in Thame Museum, Oxfordshire, UK.
