Craiglockhart by Brian Johnstone | Scottish Poetry Library

Maybe they’re here somewhere, lost
in these crowds of students, informal
in their tweeds, plus fours –

Sassoon, the elder, Sunday golfer;
Owen, bookish, gangly, pale – mingling
with the queue for the refectory,

snatching nervously at fags, ignoring
notices forbidding all those here
to smoke. You catch a glimpse

you think, later, in the distance
– backs straight, military haircuts –
turning down a corridor you glance along

but they’re not there. No, no-one is, though
low light slants through window frames,
plants these crosses on the wall.

Reproduced by kind permission of the poet.