(Wandering Shadows, Peter Graham, 1878)

A Highland Warrior

I dream of Scotland…

Glens and hills, peat and moss

A man belonging to the land as the soil beneath his feet

Rugged and rocky, nothing weak survives

The whipping wind thrashing his hair

Warning him of old man winter arriving at the hems of his skirt

Survival is not an option, for he does not know the luxury but to live and die

Warrior against warrior, clan against clan

Tides of the righteous binding the two in no man’s land

God’s will the destiny of his fate; barely a purpose of existence

I wonder as I dream, the black hills haunting my memory of what once was

A fur-clad figure standing firm atop the granite ledge, the green glen below taunting:

“Come hither. Lay within my arms and look upon the glories of the heavens.

Breathe in and feel the stir of life. Know of something more you cannot taste.”

Looking down upon the land that does not embrace him, nor anyone

The purpose of humanity lost as it passes from him to the next with bludgeoned blows

Withering ashes for the heather that blooms spring after spring, year after year

His life haunts me to remember…reminding me of a soul unfinished