Calloused Wrongs Of Tragic Old

Laggan in the highland moors, a mist descends
to soften barren peaks and greening glens, grazing
cattle fade away, voices of the watchers hesitate
as quiet wraps this lonely place in easy solitude.

We came by Pitlochry where salmon run, another
ruined church by sea at St Andrews, glimpsed the
momentous events in history played out near links
of equal antiquity, of Scotland’s famous game.

The peace and slower pace of Laggan put that day
to rest, a meal of simple Highland fare where guests
relaxed, enjoyed a rustic hospitality. One wondered
how the trenchant fierceness gained its pride of place.

Bound for Glasgow with the dawn, Culloden on the
way to Loch Ness, Urquhart Castle’s ruins and the
cloud-bound summit of Ben Nevis. We climbed there
to see again the sun shine severely over Glencoe.

Even in the depths of night I dream of Laggan’s peace,
its moor a-shroud, the quiet deceased not wild afoot,
the brutal past contained; I sleep free of a conscience
inflamed by legend bold, calloused wrongs of tragic old.
© 8 October 2007, I. D. Carswell