They sing of hope and glory,
anesthetizing violence,
dressed up in black and white.

We must hold our tongues
between the explanations,
rise up, sit down, rise up
in orchestrated rows.

The older ones go first,
equipped with metaphors.
Then come the small, hands nervous,
each practicing their part.

Proud to be of use,
their innocence too solemn,
collected, as it is.

We watch them with the clock,
observe the measured silence,
gather a pittance of time
then file out one by one

as the last post plays,
and then amazing grace.

On Sunday they’ll wear poppies,
by Monday they’ll forget.