Pictish Place 

(in the style of John Masefield)    

I must go back to the hills again,

The heather’d hills and sky;

Where wild wind blows, rain stings the face

And clouds go scudding by.

 

Where wee burns carve through dirt and rocks

And peat bogs trap the unwary;

Keep to the hills, follow ancient tracks

of deer and man to safety.

 

Carved stones with fishes, disc and bar,

The broken arrow and boar;

Each stone a symbol of marriage and power

They mark a boundary and more.

 

And on a hill, stands the fiercest of all,

Guarding the royal domain;

A Pictish warrior with sharpened teeth

And an axe at the ready to maim.

 

Don’t mess with us, the message is clear

A warrior king rules this land;

Travellers are welcome to sup our wine

But enemies fear our hand.

 

Above it all, stands Tap o’Noth

A magnet to the eye;

With legends of magicians and hurling rocks;

A belligerent giant in the sky.

 

Now ‘tis more than a thousand years,

How quickly time has flown;

Carved stones still stand as sentinels but

Their symbols are weathered and worn.

 

Lonely graves lie beneath sand and dirt

Flat stones mark a last resting place;

Dark lines in the earth and a few paltry remains;

Vague remnants of the Pictish race.

 

I must go back to the hills again,

The heather’d hills and sky;

Where the wild wind blows, rain stings the face

And life goes scudding by.