They Are Marching Still

The old men gather in the pre dawn chill,
In respect for past comrades they are marching still,
They don’t feel old but the wrinkles show,
And many that stand there have hair like snow.

The command rings out, time to fall in,
They line up quietly for the march to begin,
The noise of a wocka wocka coming down low,
Speeds up each heart, it’s a sound they well know.

The march begins with the cadence kept,
To a left, left, left right left,
They reach the obelisk and line up proud,
With scarcely a word from the watching crowd.

As the sun peeps through at the bugle call,
The old men straighten their shoulders and stand up tall,
The speeches are made and the prayers said,
To honor past comrades, long since dead.

The old men fall out but gather again,
For a hot rum toddy to ease the pain,
Of their aching joints and memories fast,
Of their long lost comrades marching past.

Next year when they gather again on plain or hill,
These same old men will be marching still.

Alex_E