The Glen

A chill wind whistles through the darkening glen.
As I turn my collar to the wind,
I hear a distant sound like death.
Turning quickly, I see nothing.
Nothing but the gusts of icy breath
rolling the long grass flat,
like the footsteps of some invisible giant
scurrying through my lonely glen.
I forge ahead,
Trying not to cast a backward glance,
Lest I catch someone unaware.
From the corner of my eye,
the swirling grass plays tricks with my mind.
At the head of the glen lies a jagged, evil peak,
with rolling black cloud all around,
and it is there that I’m bound.
In my desolate isolation,
the overwhelming feeling of a thousand Ancestors
eyes on me makes the hairs on the nape of my neck shiver,
but the vastness of this lands bleak beauty
gives a feeling warmer than any sun.
A land on which a thousand years of persecution
has left no visible mark,
but from which my every sense
can feel and taste the bitterness of strife.
When I next walk this glen,
I know I will sense again the passing of my Ancestors,
passing forever, leaving no trace but that
which the spirits can see.
My eternal hope is that my spirit
will forever walk here after my mortal passing,
sending a shiver down some future countryman,
Like an icy bead of sweat trickling down his spine,
as I stand behind him unseen, with my ancestors,
much as they do with me now.

Iain Ross