Bright flags wave
all along the way.
Memories

of caissons
roll by to the beat
of drums.

White horses
mounted and ridden
briskly

trot clip clop.
Their shoed hooves make sharp
reports

all up and
down Main Street where brass
bands play

the same tunes
year after year af-
ter year.

No one plays
the music of peace.
Oh dear.

No coffins
are paraded past us.