The White Cross, By H.P. MacKeen
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