Scotland Immemorial
We left the lush fields of Ireland
in search of rock to perch on,
to garner and shuffle into cairns,
to carve mazily or batter folk,
to celebrate our Kings.
At the start of the future,
it’s as though we said:
all this work in leather,
the filigree the euro-galleys
bring when sea’s like glass,
is a’ very guid, but it won’t last, eh?
You ken whaur ye are wi’ stane.
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