Bonnie Prince Charlie (Slight Return)

You saw him at the foot of the ancestral staircase,

not quite see through but wavering

in the sunlight heavy with Cairngorm dust,

like midges feasting on their prey.

His thought form seemed uncertain,

not sure whether to manifest

in a world that had moved on

from his weary myth at last.

Once he was Europe’s breathless darling;

he set now-dead nations’ tongues trembling.

But the White Rose is unrisen,

not withered but gone, made brittle

by the subtle British lies the writers

of dark state secrets shroud tied

him into.

In his uncertain after-place his tears

are gathered up by lesser angels,

diamonds for downtrodden ideals.

O Teàrlach, Charles of the Battles,

your bitterness was hard bought

from the men who fell at Drummossie.