Holy Wells and Highland Fires

I've been reading a lot about the folklore of Scotland--about its holy wells, fairy folk, brownies, cairns, giants, and impressive saints. It is really interesting stuff. So, I thought to myself, why not write a poem rooted in these traditions? I started out will full intention of writing a poem simply about Scottish folklore, but somehow along the way it morphed into a commentary on the highland clearances and a change in an entire group's way of life.



Oh Holy Well, stony still, amang the heather bonnie,
what hae ye seen since Columba’s time, when saints roved a’ the dawning?
Wha hielan’ men hae sought ye dear, when mortal wounds where many?

Nae words do tell, the muckle feats o’ a cistern sae uncanny.
Nae cold iron brand or mystic ring hae e’er merited such fawning,
nor would a coven of ill fowk do sae guid wi’ a’ their conning!


Oh Holy Well, here I stand, wi’ home and land a-burnin’.
The Hielans, proud and gallant once, now a false laird’s claim,
For the Black Watch hae came and drove us oot, nae more to be returning.

Our lives hard-fought, but fu’ o’ guid—we now must be a-spurning,
Shoes did dance and whisky pour’d where now leaps peat-fueled flame.
Nae more forever we’ll blaw the pipes or sing o’ Hugh the Graeme.


Oh Holy Well, deep and cold, shall I cast myself down ye mouth
or will ye no, once more again, make a loch o’ a’ that’s yonder?
For the muckle thieves and vagrants would then ride the waters south!

For Alba’s sake, tried and true, let ye waters flood this drouth!
Scotland anew, awash with wi’ clans, I would embrace the fonder,
and hielan’ might and hospitality rare, would give pause for all to ponder!

At Grips with Geamhradh (A Gaelic Anaphora)

Unstoked flames scald my face,
A silver-white world my squinted eyes embrace.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I tell myself in jest.
But the shivering in my body will not allow for rest.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I mumble in vain.
The bean sídhe howls viciously, casting sleety rain.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!”— I curse at the haughty blast!
Snow drifted beyond my hips cannot long last.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I hold in my soul.
Such may happen if this tempest does not take its toll.

“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I uttered once before,
But I traipse on John o’ Groats no more.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” said upon a cairn of stones
was enough to cow a spirit of hoarfrost absent mortal bones.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” was my anthem and my dirge.
But now I am confronted with Geamhradh’s chilling scourge.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” now muffled by thunderclap.
Oaks shatter ‘round me as my tartan I o’er-wrap.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” as blinding whiteness prevails.
My skin turns deathly blue and circulation fails.

“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” as I buckle at the knees.
It shall not be long til my soul spritely flees.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” through lips frozen shut.
Burns’ ‘cauld blast’ will have slain this idiot mutt.

Lo! Ice is cleft and a sprout parts the ground!
In “Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I have salvation found!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” Come O Mistress of Spring!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and the holy Rowan bring!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and melt these days of woe!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and let winter hastily go!




1 “Spring is coming.”, Gaelic
2 Banshee, Gaelic
3 John o’ Groats, Scotland, 58°38'24"N and 3°04'12"W
4 Winter, Scots Gaelic
5 “O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast?”, Robert Burns
6 European Rowan, Sorbus aucuparia