The Nationalist Poet
History, how it trailed behind him;
like some old still hairy straggling
band of clansmen from Culloden,
un-dead and unaccountably
still about, huddling by their fires
in the high hills, not warm, not cold,
not going, sore, merely knowing;
and scraping rust, reminding us.
“Let go”, my aunt would say. “Hooray”,
we thought. Now perhaps he’ll listen.
Stick a pin in bagpipe, let some
dent befall the plucking fiddle.
Enough. And then those faces of
the retinue would peek and keek.
And whistle. “We are not dead. We
linger. Let us keep our singer.”
If you have any comments on this poem, Seth Crook would be
pleased to hear from you.