“The Songs Carried Home”
***
They come down the Royal Mile,
boots steady, kilts swinging,
pipes crying out like old ghosts
who’ve seen too much
but still sing.
The Black Watch.
Back from the dust and fire,
from places where the sky
didn’t know peace.
Now they march through Edinburgh,
castle watching from its perch,
crowd lining the street
with eyes full of pride
and a few tears tucked behind sunglasses.
The drums don’t just beat—
they remember.
Every thud says...
We made it.
Every note says...
Not all of us did.
And the pipers—
they don’t flinch.
They play for the ones
who walked beside them
and now walk only in memory.
This isn’t just a parade.
It’s a promise.
That Scotland remembers.
That the uniform still means something.
That the sound of the pipes
can carry grief,
glory,
and home.
all in one breath.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 3:35 AM UTC
“The Songs Carried Home”
***
They come down the Royal Mile,
boots steady, kilts swinging,
pipes crying out like old ghosts
who’ve seen too much
but still sing.
The Black Watch.
Back from the dust and fire,
from places where the sky
didn’t know peace.
Now they march through Edinburgh,
castle watching from its perch,
crowd lining the street
with eyes full of pride
and a few tears tucked behind sunglasses.
The drums don’t just beat—
they remember.
Every thud says...
We made it.
Every note says...
Not all of us did.
And the pipers—
they don’t flinch.
They play for the ones
who walked beside them
and now walk only in memory.
This isn’t just a parade.
It’s a promise.
That Scotland remembers.
That the uniform still means something.
That the sound of the pipes
can carry grief,
glory,
and home.
all in one breath.
My poem is to recognise the returning of soldiers from conflict to the familiar streets of home. It captures the weight behind the ceremony—where pride and loss walk side by side. The rhythm of boots and pipes becomes more than tradition; it becomes memory, honour, and a quiet promise that those who served, and those who didn’t return, are never forgotten.
