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Tom Boston Kilravock


Amongst the granite and green, on an Oak tree I leaned
to rest in the shade of its crown.
For that moment just then, I was Lord of this realm,
with these ruins of history renowned.
And in this ancient place, I tried to retrace
the footsteps of those from the past.
In that reticent wood, as a young man I stood
in search of the play’s ghostly cast.

But none there was seen, not the Prince or the Queen
nor the Laird named after the rose.
And the fierce men of war did battle no more.
No soldiers were railed against foes.
All the colours of fall seemed to recall
the clan tartans from seasons of lore.
The echoes of time and the ancient bells’ chime
saluted a world that’s no more.

Now, as I left this scene where legends have been,
I stole one more glance just to see,
if I only could glimpse that Queen or that Prince
or those few that fought to be free.
The Highland Sun teased its way through the leaves
and dappled the ground with its gold.
And the whispering trees with the voice of the breeze,
lamented the fallen of old.

Inspired by the painting ‘Napa Valley Ridge’ by the artist Wayne Thiebaud

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