My grandfather, Joseph Kay, Highland Light Infantry –

After his capture on the 17th of January,

 

Prisoner of war, Bourlon, Cambrai, and on and on

From the Second Battle of the Somme,

 

After the death of friends who did not become

Fathers, grandfathers, husbands, old sons,

 

Tram drivers, shipbuilders, miners,

Lovers, joiny-inners – never, ever raised his voice in anger.

 

My father, John Kay, boy, up at dawn,

Spies his father (shy man, bit withdrawn, shrapnel in his arm)

 

Polishing the brass buttons of his tram driver’s uniform,

(Heavy, green)

 

In a slot-like machine,

The smell of Woodbine, shoes shined, his voice rising

 

Coorie doon, coorie doon, coorie doon my darling

Lie doon my dear and in your ear

 

What was that Wagner aria?

Song sheets flutter. Blood, bone, air,

 

Ballads slide down the years, broken lines.

My father, ninety, still singing his father

 

There’s life in the old dog yet, John pipes

Private Joseph Kay takes a long breath,

 

Hits the note, hangs on, blows out.