On These Plains I Lay

On These Plains I Lay White fire and heat, blinding light, blinding bright. Shot down on these plains, My soldiers, My warriors, Fading from my sight. Battle lost? Battle won? Battered men, moaning in the morning sun. I believe I am dying, Not too old, definitely too young. Fading. Now floating. Moving forward to the light. A pull on my cloak. My eyes closed, but open to this sight, of a man in kilt, Arm outstretched to mine. I reach for his hand, battle scarred for all time. My eyes closed and still, but I see his face clear. I know this man. I fought this man. Still he calls me near. "James" he beckons. "Its Charles of Culloden, the man you spared." "In the moor, on the field in Scotland". Indeed I did, this Jacobite I spared, This wounded Fraser, laid down in despair. Cumberland's' order gave no dignity, Gave no honour, to this brave Scot. He was not my fodder. Why are you here, my mind speaks in silence. This "Fraser" replies, Men of honour have earned this quietness. Walk with me, to our God, to our Saviour. Pay no heed to this battle. You have fought. You have died, with honour and with favour. Come to heaven and stand with pride. Your life distinguished, and now time to rest, beside our saviour. By His side. I reach out to grasp, this Jacobite Fraser. He holds me, and comforts me, on our way to heaven, on our way to our Saviour. And now I rest. Graham Alexander Devenish