I saw him white haired, small bent.
There were pictures, Cheshire men,
comrades, serious, smiling, unsure.
His later trenches were for spuds.

On postcard he's crouched by a road,
grinning, rifle aimed at camera,
a shot of friendly fire from France bound home.

He didn't talk about the War,
except to say the food was good.
The youth grew into the uniform.
Gran said he came home mid blown.