“They’re starting – Quick!” I said to him
“It’s the trooping of the Queens’ Guards
Take my hand, and we’ll find a place
in the front where you can see.”
I led him to the palace yard
clasping palms we chased the parade
hearts beating along to drums,
to soldiers’ feet, and horses hooves
and triumphant marching songs
My grandson and I stood and watched
row upon row of belted tunics,
scarlet red of Britain’s blood
gold buttons flashed by noon-day sun
black trousers and shoes in scissor-leg moves
snipping in time, wooden, all as one
Left right, snip snap
Bayonets fixed on sky-aimed rifles
Canadian bearskin-heightened heads
glistening fur bounced and swung
while people jostled, tradition bound
Left right, swish swoosh
“How many?” he asked above the din
“What?” I said, too thrilled to hear
He pointed at the black fur dancing
noble and thick upon their heads
Left right, snip snap
“Grannie” his query pierced the music
Left right, the soldiers passed
I cheered with the crowd but Farley cried
“For the soldiers hats,” he demanded the truth
“How many bears have died?”
.
Submitted to:
Imperfect Prose Thursdays
