Steve Eng Poet Verse

Heritage

In my secret heart I’ve felt
Like a blood-crazed Celt,
Scottish, Irish, either one,
Killing Britons with my gun.

Or with broadsword or with knife,
Dirk, or dagger, taking life
In an Ulster alleyway,
Or Culloden Moor that day.

Smoke and blood on heather grass,
Celtic reverie must pass,
Like a distant, dimming dream
Drowning in a dank, swift stream.

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Caroline Cécile Delacroix July 3, 2009 at 1:39 PM Striking imagery, almost brutal to the reality of past wars, yet while at the same time seeing the unchanging beauty of the land. We must never forget those who paid the price (with their life, their blood) for our freedom. Very well writtenm with great rhyming. Thanks for sharing. Caroline.