The Lament

Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly, cloaking moor and heather, the curlew and grouse silenced by the haunting of a solitary piper. Kilt clad from rocky outcrop, the lament Land Of My Youth echoed ridge and valley. Beckoning the lost footsteps, the gillie, the baker, the bankers son, the urchin that raided your orchard, once names, once faces, now empty spaces at the dinner table. And the tune reaches out beyond the gorse and fern to strange lands, names we failed in geography at school but now etched in heart and epitaph. The lofty peaks point skyward like prayers some unclimbed, some unanswered. The grass will grow where boys once ran, the laughter now an aching memory. The piper stills plays beckoning souls not names, the stag raises its head and the eagle circles this land of our youth. To duty or glory from boys to men, from men to earth. The orchard will be quiet tomorrow and the hills less worthy. At the dinner table a serviette to dry the tear and the piper will fill the glen.