In the gallery they admired the colours
In the huge landscape of Waterloo,
Horses writhing in the fray
Allowing the artist use his rich reds,
Retired to imagine themselves
In the thick of it all, the senses fired.

As they met the bracing night air they too
Became extras in a canvas yet to be painted,
Finally knew that smell of blood and smoke
And understood briefly what it might be like
To live in a bombed-out city, paying in
Those same reds for somebody else's war.