by Jared Garrett

Created on: April 30, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

In autumn's golden sheen
rise their slopes' ancient stones.
And during spring's rains I've been
searching for my ancestor's bones.

On Skye's misted, rolling hills,
where lived clans in tartan glory,
my grandpa's grandpa's blood did spill
in battle loud and gory.

Dark and wise and cleft and deep
these Scottish mountains breathe.
And I walk where mountain streams seep,
while thoughts filled with anger seethe.

For my father's grandfather was forced
by poverty's tyrant hand
to leave this land of rites and gorse
to sail to another land.

Yet still these mountains, rolling and dark
covered with grass lush and sweet,
remain to guide me to memories stark
and cause my highland heart to beat.

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