Croc
We gathered eggs each morning
from atop these ancient walls,
lined with copies of the Oban Times
to keep out winter squalls.
The thatch had long since fallen in,
a repository now for owls,
cushioning and keeping safe their brood
from anything that prowls
in the silence and the darkness
of a highland clachan night.
Past generations long forgot
had lived and toiled without respite,
their humble dreams complete,
within this smoky blackhouse,
their communal retreat.
A visit to the kirk for man and wife
each sabbath, neatly dressed,
would bring an easier after-life,
in that they would be blessed.
And so, two centuries later,
we came to Monamore Glen
and strangely found ourselves related
to those who way back then
had stoically awaited
whatever fate might come their way,
for all around, in every nook and cranny,
something new and, every day,
we felt them with us, ever present,
as though they'd never gone away.
Copyright © Peter Rees | Year Posted 2020
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