A Bitter Wind
A poem about Culloden Battlefield today and the effects of the subsequent highland clearances.
And so, t’is a bitter wind that blows
A plaintive crow that lends a single voice
piercing guilty silence.
The moss itself, whispers among the slanted stones,
footsteps sinking into sacrifice.
Distant, calm blue firth betrays the battle-yells
awake forever on the breeze.
Over heathered moors, ruined cottages
stand sentinel to different times;
The Rowan, redundant now.
Red berries speak of spilled blood
and failure to protect hearth and home
from supernatural but more so,
A weeping wound with no stopping;
Engrained on Highlanders for all time,
the ghostly call of the empty glens
echoes down the ages.