I met him up on High Cross Hill,

On the dusty track to Caelum's ridge.

Together, we crossed Acheron’s Brook,

Over the single-width wooden bridge.

 

Dressed in khaki drab, peak cap pulled 

Over sallow eyes, moist from weeping. 

Pallor'd face unsmiling, and there,

The small red medal, chest high, seeping.

 

I, this young man's father's father,

He, our family's pride.

As we strolled, I sadly thought,

We shouldn’t be walking side by side.

 

“I thank you, sir’’ the young man said,

“For meeting me today.”

“By why have you concerned yourself,

And travelled all this way?’’

 

Son, I’ve been sent to take your hand,

Guide you safely to your home.

This path that we now travel

I once considered I’d walk alone.

 

He said, “I've missed those special moments,’’ 

‘’When I walked here as a child.’’

‘’When I tumbled down from High Cross Hill,

Excitedly running wild.”

 

“But that moment came, when along with pals

I enlisted and went to war,

I prayed for the sanity of stately men

Whilst knee deep in mud and gore.”

 

‘’How did you know when I'd return?

I wasn't sure myself,

The letter that I wrote to Mum

Still sits on my barracks shelf.’’

 

Son, your arrival was forewarned, 

A War Office official note,

A pale pink telegram, sent ahead.

Sentiment, missing in the words they wrote.

 

Joy unfound in your mother's tears,

Distraught father, spiritually lost.

Neither believing the saddening truth,

Nor could they warrant the enormous cost.

 

Tonight there will be no celebration, 

Though everyone will raise a glass,

Tomorrow, you'll be buried next to me,

Once eulogised at your requiem mass.

 

Let us both travel now, towards sunset,

Heads held high; wipe away those tears.

You, like me, will soon come to realise,

We've outlived our living years.