Like waves of a bay torrent, three by three,
they clang along the road the Army steeds;
in rhythm, striking, beautiful to see,
obedient and compliant on their leads.

Grey skies above: a canvas for the mood
of Sergeant Doom, while lanky fractal trees
are playing tricks and shameless, in the nude,
they mock the wispy hair of Private Rees;

the barrack dresses fused with their own mount,
impassible, belie that ancient bond
of muck, of grit, one upon which they count
so when one asks, the other will respond.

Today, last year, one hundred years and still –
right here – those horses amble up the hill.