THE silver spears of rain
stab at the patient bosom of the hills.
The dark trees weep.
And on my soul lies an old dream and a deep
nostalgia where I keep
vigil for pipes that skirl an ageless tune
and phantom feet
following, following down forgotten years.
I see, through tears,
a kilt's proud swing along a lonely shore;
a gay plaid lifting
under the wet wind blowing from the isles;
a game lost, and the players all asleep. . .
And still my spirit hears
the sad surge of the grey loch, lapping
over the stones, and on the wind a song --
the lost lament, the pibroch of the dim
and deathless dead.
A whaup wails
hungrily, and the bitter echoes flow
over the empty moors.
Day dying, clouds flying --
pipes fading, fading, fading down the glen.
At last
the pibroch stills;
the sullen beat of marching feet
is drawn again into the vast
silence; the forever
insurmountable, indescribable
silence
(Hush…!)
that wafts across the hills.
(Reprinted by kind permission of Chambers's Journal)
