For MacIain of Glencoe

What sound was it that woke you?
Was it the crying of the children
From the farthest huts?
Or the buckled boots of lowland leather,
Breaking down your door?
On that cold February morning,
When the dawn was darkened
By the flaming-red of their coats,
What jumbled thoughts tumbled
Through your sleep-dulled brain?
What words died in your throat?
Did you pray or curse?
Did you scream or die silent?
And, as the red spread
Through your thick white hair,
Did your dying body feel their blows?

So many years,
And all your people gone.
That morning's memory,
Just a page in a book,
Torn loose and taken by a passing wind.
Your history is all words now,
But still,
The blood is warm and red on the grass of your Glen
And you, for me, are more than real.