Terry Robinson Poet Free verse

Culloden

Paler than the hills I walk
I hear the bleat of sheep long still
and see the thistles of the Saltire’s home,
yet wear the weave of no clan’s name

The red of my discordant neck carries
the match of a thousand morning skies.
When shepherds take warning and
storms make wilful sport

And those same maelstroms
that play a dirge upon my soul.
twist my limbs like the elasticated 
stretch of an eviscerated gut 

So, let me taste this air of
bitter sweet remembrances,
and at last set forth toward
that brightest of lights

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Graham Devenish December 28, 2017 at 6:13 PM I loved this. It captures the end for the man and the end for the nation at that time. Well done. I visited Culloden in 09 and was impassioned with it. I wrote about it as well. Graham Devenish

Keith Bickerstaffe December 9, 2015 at 4:43 PM '...the elasticated stretch of an eviscerated gut,' only you could come up with such a powerful phrase. '...I hear the bleat of sheep long still,' you put me right in the midst of the battlefield of long ago. Well done Terry. Keith