A POEM FOR THE LONG DEAD CLANSMEN

All For Charlie.

I feel a ghostly breeze against my cheek.
Echoing around the hillside bare and bleak,
I hear the lonely bagpipe’s dying wail
Lamenting the defeat of once proud Gael,
The butchered clansmen die,no quarter given,
There is no priest to ease them into heaven,
The white Cockade is red with loyal blood,
And tattered plaids lie trampled in the mud.

They lie here still beneath Culloden’s heather,
Where they fell,each sept and clan together.
Now tourist’s walk above the gallant bones
And speak,as in a church,in whispered tones.
I lie my posy down and gently weep,
Then feel the breeze’s kiss against my cheek.