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