The White Cross, By H.P. MacKeen
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My grandfather, artillery officer H.P. MacKeen, shown on the left, wrote this poem in Ypres in September 1917, two months before the Battle of Passchendaele.
The White Cross
It isn’t a medal or order,
It carries no ribbon or braid
But a token still
As on Calvary Hill
Of the greater sacrifice made.
It stands as a lonely sentinel
O’er the place where the hero sleeps
‘Neath a lowly