The Highland Hart

Elgin winds breezing
A re-birth crowns the horizon
And the Hart, he stands alone in the dawn.
His Hind, his beautiful hind, long since gone
Rests asleep in another world;
Gone from his side.

He watches over a shrinking kingdom
As offspring continue the line
Leaving behind two young fawns,
An imagery of his beautiful Hind lost.
She is but a mere shadow, a ghostly comfort
As he cries out his loss.

The dawn breaks, a new day is born.
The Hart on the hill calls with nostrils aflare.
He releases prayers on hot steamy breath
Into the folds of the dew in the dawn.
Winged seraphs and fattened cherubs
Gather a harvest of prayers
To fuel the re-birth of the morn.

The sun rises as stirrings in his loins;
He calls out for his Hind in the mist.
A Hind, a southern hind from a kingdom apart,
Calls back from the distance to him.
A thought, a memory, he feels a desperate need
To feed from strange southern grasses
That is pasture for this new Hind.

Oh sweet Highland Hind, my beloved, my queen
Shall I seek the comforts from the south?
He asks and awaits a shadow response.
And the Elgin winds blow warm whispers
To carry his call to the south.

© Annie McLean 21.08.00