On that island
in the Scottish sea,
gulls and heather
accompanied me
as a faint bagpipe's refrain
played the march of kilts again,
heeding the call of a Thane.

Celtic crosses in a row
mark the place where old heros lay
that thrust spears
into their foe,
and now sleep in peace below
while the heather waves in a wind
that softly sings of yesterday.

01/25/2002

Posted on 01/25/2002
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