Cool air fills the Scottish day,
Troopers ride the festooned way,
All the horses speak their neighs,
Skins with sticks, the drummers play.
The scarlet scarf from my heart flies,
A breath of wind blows it by,
I kiss his lips and ask him why,
I plead his ears, “do not die”.
“Don’t go my son,” the mothers say,
Fathers hide their tears away,
Reaper’s bridge a fare to pay,
War memorials forever stay.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 