He's The Town Crier. Poem by Matthew Coombe

Battleship crowds cruised overhead today
but were later sunk by a desert of
solid blue, pierced only by a
white jet plane that cut a chalky margin
into the sky above our heads.

So many of us gathered together
to see the soldiers parade through our town.
A silver flash of fixed bayonets,
camouflaged uniforms creased razor sharp,
each rank and file in perfect alignment.

A child ate a huge ice-cream and wobbled
on her dad’s shoulders like an egg on a
greasy spoon and wondered “Who is that man
shouting? The one in the funny felt hat?

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