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
around Drumossie.
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.


Final pic



© stormwolf 2023
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