Poetry

October 19, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Danka & Peter photo

 

By

John Watt

 

 

 

A Lament…

 

 

I sit at my window looking over the faraway hills..

My music is playing in the background..

My family lived not far from here well over a hundred years ago..

Carnie Woods was a real wood then..

I recall the fireside tales from my grandmother..

Tales of Scott Skinner and other musicians over at Banchory..

Real shindigs by all accounts..

I see my great grandparents heading over to Banchory by horse and cart..

But flat out in the back on the way home..

I see a John Watt sitting up at Skene Church throwing stones at the minister as he passed..

I wonder if that’s where the rebel started?..

His dad, James, watched for grave robbers at night..

Not a job for the faint of heart..

 

I look to the hills..

My heart dips with the wind..

A lament plays softly..

I think of when Scotland was Scottish..

Now its slowly becoming a Little England..

Our land is gone..

All died for nothing..

The derelict houses litter the hills..

The sheep still have smiles on their faces..

Bones scatter the hills..

All for nothing..

Our families fell for nothing..

Now the encroachment runs deep..

Our highland dress went first..

Our dialect fell next..

Our weapons were gone…

 

But our politicians stabbed at Westminster with words..

They fought bravely..

Some fell by treachery again..

Nothing changes..

I bow my head and hide the sorrow..

A lament still plays..

Our fish still swim the rivers..

The eagles still fly the skies..

But the land weeps..

Its not our land..

The encroachment goes on and on..

I lament the passing of Old Scotland..

I weep for a New England taking its place..

I still pray for an awakening..

But the bells toll for Scotland..

I lament its passing

 

 

 

 

 

John Watt

Hello my friends. I am a single parent of tender, undisclosed years. My son is eighteen and looking for employment. I live in Scotland which I love, as can be seen in a lot of my short notes. But I also write about the lost, lonely, and dispirited. I feel for them all. My childhood features prominently in my writing. Politicians waffling rubbish are a target for my ire. I have had some short notes published. I enjoy writing, obviously.

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