What Dreams
May Bring
by Craig Waltman
USA
November 2018
As the eagle mounts high upon feathered wings of donn unfettered and free…I behold…I can only tell, my darling Jeannie cast in all a-glow with locks aflame and shimmering eyes of seamrag gilt they with gold. The Divine has been more than gracious, for with your fetching memory He has filled my soul as a casg now brimming…overflowing…which sustains me even unto this…life’s cruel end, forsaken here upon Culloden Moor am I…fallen by an Ulstermen’s steel and a Hessian’s merciless blade. I pray for the rain…for the clouds to well with their tears, and thus they shed not, for, alas, they have none to spare…nay, not a drop for me. My throat burns for but a sip of cool water, shall the heavens weep for us Scotland, for we have all bled and died this day without a friendly gaze to fall upon us…enmity abounds us in all directions…no, there is none to give us aid. Now the sounds of shrill death which ring me soften in this…this my most grim repose amidst Alba’s finest…my brave brothers all so full of courage -- born of fire…born of blood. For we could not turn aside, for our mettle was once so proud and sure, once so very strong, but now sundered are we as the wood for the hearth…consumed as the chaff…men of ash are we blown by England’s hot wind…Augustus’ bloody winnowing. But then was I to be granted a single mercy, for then charity in her pity warmed my parched lips with her sweet kiss, for again my thoughts returned unto my darling Jeannie…my bonnie lass so wild and free is she as the highlands in full bloom…Oh, in the rush of Spring. Verily, the summer is but a shiver in your warmth…the winter has lost its bite. Your lips are as honey…your smile is as the orchard wind. The glinn are all a-song…they overfloweth with your melody…for yours is the soul which gave my spirit wings…how even your shadow falls across the mountains for me. Oh, what dreams may bringeth they forth, but, alas, it was but a mere dream and sadly it is no more. Now then as the darkened, crimson field fades about me your memory grows brighter still, for your years have made you more beautiful…your flower yet endures…nay, it has not withered nor shall it ever for thee. Oh, for the joy…the sorrow of dreams and what is brought forth in their conjuring…if only we belonged to another place…another time, but, alas, time is no more. For against my throat lord Death holds his dagger, as into the realm of the darkest night I descend with your lovely thought. With my dying breath I speak your name…my sweet, sweet, darling Jeannie. My only sorrow is that you shall never know, for, alas, you were promised to another, but how this heart betrays the tale where love is secretly kept, and now so shall it be, forevermore…for this lone heart to keep.
The End
May Bring
by Craig Waltman
USA
November 2018
As the eagle mounts high upon feathered wings of donn unfettered and free…I behold…I can only tell, my darling Jeannie cast in all a-glow with locks aflame and shimmering eyes of seamrag gilt they with gold. The Divine has been more than gracious, for with your fetching memory He has filled my soul as a casg now brimming…overflowing…which sustains me even unto this…life’s cruel end, forsaken here upon Culloden Moor am I…fallen by an Ulstermen’s steel and a Hessian’s merciless blade. I pray for the rain…for the clouds to well with their tears, and thus they shed not, for, alas, they have none to spare…nay, not a drop for me. My throat burns for but a sip of cool water, shall the heavens weep for us Scotland, for we have all bled and died this day without a friendly gaze to fall upon us…enmity abounds us in all directions…no, there is none to give us aid. Now the sounds of shrill death which ring me soften in this…this my most grim repose amidst Alba’s finest…my brave brothers all so full of courage -- born of fire…born of blood. For we could not turn aside, for our mettle was once so proud and sure, once so very strong, but now sundered are we as the wood for the hearth…consumed as the chaff…men of ash are we blown by England’s hot wind…Augustus’ bloody winnowing. But then was I to be granted a single mercy, for then charity in her pity warmed my parched lips with her sweet kiss, for again my thoughts returned unto my darling Jeannie…my bonnie lass so wild and free is she as the highlands in full bloom…Oh, in the rush of Spring. Verily, the summer is but a shiver in your warmth…the winter has lost its bite. Your lips are as honey…your smile is as the orchard wind. The glinn are all a-song…they overfloweth with your melody…for yours is the soul which gave my spirit wings…how even your shadow falls across the mountains for me. Oh, what dreams may bringeth they forth, but, alas, it was but a mere dream and sadly it is no more. Now then as the darkened, crimson field fades about me your memory grows brighter still, for your years have made you more beautiful…your flower yet endures…nay, it has not withered nor shall it ever for thee. Oh, for the joy…the sorrow of dreams and what is brought forth in their conjuring…if only we belonged to another place…another time, but, alas, time is no more. For against my throat lord Death holds his dagger, as into the realm of the darkest night I descend with your lovely thought. With my dying breath I speak your name…my sweet, sweet, darling Jeannie. My only sorrow is that you shall never know, for, alas, you were promised to another, but how this heart betrays the tale where love is secretly kept, and now so shall it be, forevermore…for this lone heart to keep.
The End