The Red Moss of Glen Affric
The phantoms of Glen Affric call
from deep within the histosol,
where time and matter’s slow decay
of misty glen and ancient fray,
conceal Mackenzie ghosts in wait
with weapons drawn to greet their fate
of claymore blade; of Celtic cross,
to shed the blood of William Ross,
and stain the sphagnum bryophyte,
his soul to cut and extradite.
Amidst the whipping hilltop squall
is heard their eerie battle call,
where shadow soldiers groan and splay
upon the hazy, darkened brae.
As well, the spill of blood and spate,
the earth to curse and consecrate;
the peat to quench; the land emboss,
forever running red the moss
to reclaim Scotland by birthright
for Stuart reign and Jacobite.
Copyright © Thvia Shetley | Year Posted 2019