Like crimson tapestry, the red coat’s route
was spun across the waves to silent coves,
and weaved far deep within what ‘ere was mute:
a treasury for Britain’s wondrous troves.
Come back, O friends, in brightly-coloured cloak!
Revive your stay in our small robing room,
and send – proceeding stately – your good folk
again to judge the world upon the spume!
In Halifax the trusted arms had rest
from battle in far sands and under-growth.
We can, once more, strew flowers for the Best
– who, marched to Evensong, renew their oath.
Confetti steams, and blooms – all bursting, bright –
are dear to Men who earn this pageant-right.


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