My poor bloody country.
I walk upon a land built from history
And wonder as the curlew's call repeats,
The clouds that wrap the hill unto itself
Can drift and swirl, scything rain that has
Its ice shard daggers piercing my skin, deep to
The centre of my soul. And I know no-one
Can hear my cry of pain, for no-one listens.
This land I love, peopled with the giants of history,
Is from all sides beset, the poor disgrace that repeats
Again and again is interwoven into the very ground itself,
And the people are raised on lies and corruption that has
No end, no siren call of hope, no cry of stop, to
Shatter and disintegrate. Is there no-one
Who will stand and lead, no-one who listens?
© 2ndwitch, 05/04/14
This is based on an idea called 'the golden shovel' (see http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/244278), and I have used Steve Turner's poem -
History Lesson.
History repeats itself.
Has to.
No-one listens.
I took the title from a song that I cannot find online to link to, so I don't know its provenance, but it is on an album called 'The Lewis Blue' by Duncan Chisholm and Ivan Drever, and the track is called 'The Battle of Falkirk'.
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