Poem: Scottish Walking Tour: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Scottish Walking Tour
Poetic form: Burns Stanza
Rating: Gen
Length: 483
Summary: After Mary's death, Watson goes on a walking tour of Scotland.
an exile calls, a flight from grief
the sorrowed heart pursues relief
in scenes of tartan leitmotif
a northbound train
flies by night like fugitive-thief
towards Scottish main
a walking tour, the very thing
for hearts where only dirges sing
the Highland views will surely bring
a remedy
or respite from revisiting
grave memory
with stoutish stick and sturdy boots
the jaunt begins o’er stones and roots
to greet the High Bridge as it shoots
above the bed
yet from the path a glance refutes
a bridge ahead
another river, daunting cross
its setts too slippery with moss
and insecure and smooth as gloss
steady as goes
at far bank, without lapse or loss
the hero crows!
and realizes, hindsight clear,
that concentration, peril near
bestows a gift, a recess dear
from sorrow’s grip
a guide, a way from there to here
a narrow strip
a souvenir collected now
to mark the moment, where and how,
the head is lowered to a bow
to seek a stone
a pebble trio will avow
the wisdom shown
away from raging river’s rush
along Loch Oich where spruces crush
a stumble through the thick’ning brush
reveals an oak
to sit and lean against, the hush
in which to soak
on the march again, lesson calls
a V depression pales and palls,
the path climbs, the ascending walls
reach sunset sky
so steep the track, will folds, step stalls,
lips part in sigh
the way out is up, naturally
a careful tread, no alchemy
required, just goat’s agility
and stubbornness
through thick spruce, then birch tapestry
a heart’s egress
a look down and back on the glen
some pebbles collected and then
onto level ground at loch’s fen
conjuring ghosts
of kilted throng from who knows when
‘neath flags and posts
the Highland air, the Highland smell,
thinking of tales the hills could tell
once little river’s forded well
the rowan, too,
a place to hide, where birches swell
and hide the view
the nearest thing to human trace was
a well-ivied chimney place
charred crumbling ancestral space
once very fine
the light quickens, so does the pace
toward resting time
But just as dusk begins to droop
a grey shadow is seen to swoop
and glide, a graceful, feathered loop
across the loch
the heron’s flight conducts a coup:
sorrow forgot
there was a load croak overhead
afar, the mighty heron spread
its wings, made slow, strong lofty tread
by setting sun
a blessing and a hope was said
for life to come
the tour proceeds, boot soles grow thin
a-trampling path, trail, and glen
a fortnight passes, days begin
to be enough
and lips are even known to grin
‘midst smooth and rough
and then once more aboard a train,
one headed south and back again
but this time with a sound refrain
inside the chest
a new song, owing to campaign
of Highland rest
Poetic form: Burns Stanza
Rating: Gen
Length: 483
Summary: After Mary's death, Watson goes on a walking tour of Scotland.
an exile calls, a flight from grief
the sorrowed heart pursues relief
in scenes of tartan leitmotif
a northbound train
flies by night like fugitive-thief
towards Scottish main
a walking tour, the very thing
for hearts where only dirges sing
the Highland views will surely bring
a remedy
or respite from revisiting
grave memory
with stoutish stick and sturdy boots
the jaunt begins o’er stones and roots
to greet the High Bridge as it shoots
above the bed
yet from the path a glance refutes
a bridge ahead
another river, daunting cross
its setts too slippery with moss
and insecure and smooth as gloss
steady as goes
at far bank, without lapse or loss
the hero crows!
and realizes, hindsight clear,
that concentration, peril near
bestows a gift, a recess dear
from sorrow’s grip
a guide, a way from there to here
a narrow strip
a souvenir collected now
to mark the moment, where and how,
the head is lowered to a bow
to seek a stone
a pebble trio will avow
the wisdom shown
away from raging river’s rush
along Loch Oich where spruces crush
a stumble through the thick’ning brush
reveals an oak
to sit and lean against, the hush
in which to soak
on the march again, lesson calls
a V depression pales and palls,
the path climbs, the ascending walls
reach sunset sky
so steep the track, will folds, step stalls,
lips part in sigh
the way out is up, naturally
a careful tread, no alchemy
required, just goat’s agility
and stubbornness
through thick spruce, then birch tapestry
a heart’s egress
a look down and back on the glen
some pebbles collected and then
onto level ground at loch’s fen
conjuring ghosts
of kilted throng from who knows when
‘neath flags and posts
the Highland air, the Highland smell,
thinking of tales the hills could tell
once little river’s forded well
the rowan, too,
a place to hide, where birches swell
and hide the view
the nearest thing to human trace was
a well-ivied chimney place
charred crumbling ancestral space
once very fine
the light quickens, so does the pace
toward resting time
But just as dusk begins to droop
a grey shadow is seen to swoop
and glide, a graceful, feathered loop
across the loch
the heron’s flight conducts a coup:
sorrow forgot
there was a load croak overhead
afar, the mighty heron spread
its wings, made slow, strong lofty tread
by setting sun
a blessing and a hope was said
for life to come
the tour proceeds, boot soles grow thin
a-trampling path, trail, and glen
a fortnight passes, days begin
to be enough
and lips are even known to grin
‘midst smooth and rough
and then once more aboard a train,
one headed south and back again
but this time with a sound refrain
inside the chest
a new song, owing to campaign
of Highland rest
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