Mac Caulley

Mac Caulley was a farmer-O Living off the shores of Badachro His fields were sown like tartan-O The crops crisscrossed in every row. The evening pulled him to the coast Where on his pipes he’d sound a toast To all of those he loved the most A declaration, but n’er a boast. Not all were happy with this gam Those said he shaved with razor clams That thistle leaves had spiked his dram While hives of bees, lived in his tam. He pushed aside the verbal stones and squeezed the belly, to a moan A sound akin to grizzly groans That shaped itself to Highland tones Sheep wagged wooly heads, to and fro Fish danced through water, far below A Stag waved antlers, at his doe Through rowan trees, the music flowed Mothers tucked tired children into bed Fathers sleepily nodded, weary heads Sleep wrapped itself in myriad threads About their minds, like pretzel breads. Mac Caulley set his pipes aside His feet were damp from shifting tides He headed homeward, with quick strides To his doorway lit…by dancing eyes