His Last Parade

Not a flag was unfurled, and no cornet trilled, as the rain-swollen clouds, the bleak valley filled. The wind blowing cold with a chill that pervades as the caisson's old wheels creaked through the glades where leafless Live Oaks their limbs upward bent as if to acknowledge the young soldier’s lament. A tousled lone drummer in tattered old grays led a dog and three mourners to the dead soldier’s grave. The muffled rataplan of his red and tan drum was beating forlornly rum-dum d’ dum-dum And along the bare hillock’s long, rough-rutted track both mule and cart were carrying him back to the land that he left to fight a grim war tho’ he ne’er understood what the fighting was for. When one fateful day in a field of smoke a fusillade violently tore through his cloak. His battle had ended as he fell to the ground his lips mouthing something but ne’er uttered a sound. Now his casket was lowered in an uncaring grave as the sad words were read his poor soul to save whilst a single red flower was forlornly tossed upon the young warrior’s funereal box. Unseen by the mourners yet a color guard stood a bugler and flagger peering down through the woods. Then high from that ridge at the hillside’s top the bugler rang taps and all motion had stopped. Each eye in confusion turned looking around in search of the source of that sad, mournful sound. Though ne’er to be seen the bugler still played the keening that echoed down through the glade. Then just for a moment the sun had now shone as if angels descended to take him back home. The mourners and drummer filed out of the glade except for the old dog that steadfastly remained. The elegy was over and all farewells had been bade that gave honor and glory to his last parade. John Henry Gardner © 2015 – All Rights Reserved