Thank You, Grandfather

Teen lad posing, in Black Watch uniform:

A plain tartan raised before Culloden,

What deathly dance of dashing white sergeant

Did you come through, paler than the piper?

Corporal already, 1915,

Prospects of promotion beckoning fast:

Yet to earn your third stripe, a Staff Sergeant,

Refusing an officer’s commission.

The red of my poppy sprayed with so much

Blood and deep sacrifice, in memory:

How many of your friends never came home

To life and love and family again?

The muddy, bloated trenches, No-Man’s Land

Now a silent scar, where the flowers bleed.