(For the cousin I never knew and the countless like him, "Lost at Sea" in WW1")

The fiery warmth of the workers dram

Is poetry for my work-honed throat.

The fire cracks and the old clock ticks

While my father tells some tales of old.

As men we raise the whisky glass

And laughter flows as time flies past.

Can you taste the dram your father poured

On the night before you sailed?

The island winds - so fierce - so strong

As I walk upon the beaten shore.

Cold beer to wash the work away

My brother laughs "of course there’s more"

Without words we know the beauty of the beach.

Our right - what need have we of speech?

Did you see the wind make the machair wave

As you screamed into the drowning sea?

The photo is bent old and fading

Just but a boy, yet a mirror’s face.

And my grandmother angrily calling -

"But that back - put that back in it’s place!"

And now it’s just me that remembers -

A medal - a face - just memory’s embers.

I hope you smelled the sun on the summer flowers

As the burning diesel filled your lungs.

I remember.

(Copyright Gordon A. Macintyre 2002 - Edited May 2008)