Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly,
cloaking moor and heather, the
curlew and grouse silenced by
the haunting of a solitary piper.
Kilt clad from rocky outcrop,
the lament Land Of My Youth
echoed ridge and valley.
Beckoning the lost footsteps,
the gillie, the baker, the bankers
son, the urchin that raided your
orchard, once names, once faces,
now empty spaces at the dinner
table.
And the tune reaches out beyond
the gorse and fern to strange lands,
names we failed in geography at
school but now etched in heart
and epitaph.
The lofty peaks point skyward like
prayers some unclimbed, some
unanswered. The grass will grow
where boys once ran, the laughter
now an aching memory.
The piper stills plays beckoning
souls not names, the stag raises
its head and the eagle circles
this land of our youth. To duty
or glory from boys to men, from
men to earth. The orchard will be
quiet tomorrow and the hills less
worthy. At the dinner table a
serviette to dry the tear and the
piper will fill the glen.
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