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
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2015
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