Hie me to the hill-ground,
the high hill ground of Scotland,
to battle bladed wind-blasts
my forebears fought before me,
...
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when my storm approaches, I'll stand before its raw force by furnace flames of bygone ways, and anvils ringing down the days. thinking of death, thinking of the past.. all the virtues and falsehood that carry weight in our minds.. we cogitate and meditate over life and death and a life after death..... beautiful message my dear poet. thank u very much. tony
A masterly crafted poem, John; pulsating with energy, rhythm and emotion.
Thanks, Paul. I write more for recitation than for the page and it's gratifying to find readers who have an ear for the meter.
A dram raised to this one John...much enjoyed.
Thanks, Gordon. Slainte!