R K Summers

Highland Ghosts

The grumbling tide
Has circled wide
The histories of men
And all the while,
The drums
Or guns
Come closer 'cross the fen

This ancient isle
That seems to smile
The haunted land of old
The spirits gather
In stormy weather
Where ghostly tales are told

The Beasts the wander
Fen and moor
Tarn and loch and brake
Howl the night
Prelude the might
Of dragon, wyrm and drake

Croaking out a melody
The mournful banshee cry
Washing out the bloody shirts
Of Highlanders who die

Pipes that play through fields of thyme
Call strangers to the wild
Fionn, riddle and Thomas,  rhyme
And meet with fearless Childe 

Footprints of a cloven hoof
Stride across a snowy roof
The Devil's loose in Highland place
To Mark his witches 'cross the face

A scream of delight on hallowed site
The ghostly witches come
To dance and play the night away
And summon something wicked
With the pricking of a thumb.

So much more there is to speak
Of Scotlands bloody past
Her moors are steeped in such mystique
But aye, the bonny isle will last 
 
A storm by day
The Highlands say
Breeds pestilence and blight
But fortunes fair
No guns
For sons
When storms come by night.

'Yes, I am more than aware that Scotland is not an island.' - KS

Poem Submitted: Saturday, May 29, 2010
Poem Edited: Sunday, May 30, 2010

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