02-19-2012, 03:28 AM
Culloden Still
Roots under moss , tight-tangled and tousled, fixed and firm in the lock of time’s door,
Sip [1*]soft from the dark sky, where dapper fat grouse, buckshot laden, now cartwheel
Then crash to the lowland, a’wheezing and steaming. They die like Highlanders,
With feathers of tartan, [*2] dirk-spurred and death-cry, proud breasts cease a’rising.
Proud breasts cease a’rising.
Clod of soiled heath, brown-juiced (the life giver), tainted (or favoured) by hints of past dead,
Runs staining through fingers as French blood to wine. Scotch blood to spirit, a miracle making,
By the still of Culloden: pressed hard on the heather, blood-warmed and flattened, they fell in their time.
Fell for a freedom, fell for fiefdom, fell for a future; they lay in red lines.
Lay in red lines.
Black stratification of carbon-rich infill; here was their last fire, here their last day.
Indelible link, liquor left of the blood pool, is the essence of many who namelessly stay;
Their bodies diluted by a thousand divisions, each fraction weaker, though wider and yet
By homeopathic traces of presence, they will never be memories lost in time’s mist.
Lost in time’s mist.
Clay for a grave-depth, broadsword buried, red-rust adherent to hand-clasp of steel.
Salt-sweat speeds decay; a perverse oxidation, encrusting on agate and jasper and bronze.
Signs of a Clan Chief, his rank and his standing, prowess and pride now devoured by rain.
His gold rings remain where, sword thrust, his hand formed a cast-in depression; hoisting from death.
Hoisting from death.
Deep and yet deeper, seeping down slowly; centuries passing- no changes- but see
The strained line of time carries traits of the fallen. Jacobite matter, nuclear bonded,
Echoes familial features of men. These once were the fathers but are again children;
Their cells strange dividing, diminished in number, engrained in granite and fixed in their youth.
Fixed in their youth.
Dark in the rocks in silent procession, minerals leach into thinning cleaved lines.
In fractures and fissures where gravity struggles, the tight-bonded atoms find levels yet lower,
Where pooled genes are cupped. Cold Night sleeps in the caverns; but the dead wake the living.
With clear water brimming and life in solution, the [*3] Well of the Dead will drain gently away.
Drain gently away.
One hour of battle, one hour of triumph, two thousand layered on Culloden’s field.
Barrell’s 4th Foot, Dejean’s 37th, thirty-one more in the blend of that day.
Frenchies and Campbells, Macdonalds, Maclachlans; all gave their all and may be giving still.
The liquor runs on; now gold, now amber, now tan, now straw and in all are they.
In all are they.
Proud breasts cease a’rising,
They lay in red lines.
Never lost in time’s mist
They are hoisting from death;
And fixed in their youth
Will drain gently away,
For in all are they.
In all are they.
TAK 2010
*1 “soft” is of gaelic origin indicating misty wet weather and its use is derived from the word “bog” meaning “soft and wet”. Use now mostly confined to Ireland.
*2 A “dirk” is the highlander’s dagger, often portrayed as being held in the overturn of the hose though strictly speaking this is a “sgian dubh”. The “dirk” was attached to the middle waist of the kilt. The “spur” of the grouse is the protruding claw above the foot, used both offensively and defensively.
*3 “Well of the Dead”. A stone marks the Well of the Dead and the place where Alexander MacGillivray of Clan Chattan fell. The fighting was so fierce at this place that the living had to climb over the dead to get to the enemy.
Roots under moss , tight-tangled and tousled, fixed and firm in the lock of time’s door,
Sip [1*]soft from the dark sky, where dapper fat grouse, buckshot laden, now cartwheel
Then crash to the lowland, a’wheezing and steaming. They die like Highlanders,
With feathers of tartan, [*2] dirk-spurred and death-cry, proud breasts cease a’rising.
Proud breasts cease a’rising.
Clod of soiled heath, brown-juiced (the life giver), tainted (or favoured) by hints of past dead,
Runs staining through fingers as French blood to wine. Scotch blood to spirit, a miracle making,
By the still of Culloden: pressed hard on the heather, blood-warmed and flattened, they fell in their time.
Fell for a freedom, fell for fiefdom, fell for a future; they lay in red lines.
Lay in red lines.
Black stratification of carbon-rich infill; here was their last fire, here their last day.
Indelible link, liquor left of the blood pool, is the essence of many who namelessly stay;
Their bodies diluted by a thousand divisions, each fraction weaker, though wider and yet
By homeopathic traces of presence, they will never be memories lost in time’s mist.
Lost in time’s mist.
Clay for a grave-depth, broadsword buried, red-rust adherent to hand-clasp of steel.
Salt-sweat speeds decay; a perverse oxidation, encrusting on agate and jasper and bronze.
Signs of a Clan Chief, his rank and his standing, prowess and pride now devoured by rain.
His gold rings remain where, sword thrust, his hand formed a cast-in depression; hoisting from death.
Hoisting from death.
Deep and yet deeper, seeping down slowly; centuries passing- no changes- but see
The strained line of time carries traits of the fallen. Jacobite matter, nuclear bonded,
Echoes familial features of men. These once were the fathers but are again children;
Their cells strange dividing, diminished in number, engrained in granite and fixed in their youth.
Fixed in their youth.
Dark in the rocks in silent procession, minerals leach into thinning cleaved lines.
In fractures and fissures where gravity struggles, the tight-bonded atoms find levels yet lower,
Where pooled genes are cupped. Cold Night sleeps in the caverns; but the dead wake the living.
With clear water brimming and life in solution, the [*3] Well of the Dead will drain gently away.
Drain gently away.
One hour of battle, one hour of triumph, two thousand layered on Culloden’s field.
Barrell’s 4th Foot, Dejean’s 37th, thirty-one more in the blend of that day.
Frenchies and Campbells, Macdonalds, Maclachlans; all gave their all and may be giving still.
The liquor runs on; now gold, now amber, now tan, now straw and in all are they.
In all are they.
Proud breasts cease a’rising,
They lay in red lines.
Never lost in time’s mist
They are hoisting from death;
And fixed in their youth
Will drain gently away,
For in all are they.
In all are they.
TAK 2010
*1 “soft” is of gaelic origin indicating misty wet weather and its use is derived from the word “bog” meaning “soft and wet”. Use now mostly confined to Ireland.
*2 A “dirk” is the highlander’s dagger, often portrayed as being held in the overturn of the hose though strictly speaking this is a “sgian dubh”. The “dirk” was attached to the middle waist of the kilt. The “spur” of the grouse is the protruding claw above the foot, used both offensively and defensively.
*3 “Well of the Dead”. A stone marks the Well of the Dead and the place where Alexander MacGillivray of Clan Chattan fell. The fighting was so fierce at this place that the living had to climb over the dead to get to the enemy.