The holy men from columns isles
With reverent step and show
By cool green dale and still blue loch
To others quietly go
O’er lonely moor and mountain praise to their god doth rise
Eagle startled soars aloft on dawns radient skies
Through narrow gap see shore and loch
The voiding Norsemen pour
The Holy men of Preistsdale a top they are no more
Ruined, sad and silent lies the humble cell
Desecante, blackened, broken the sacred silver bell
Peaks stand silent mourning tears on Kilmory’s strand
Families from home uprooted to die on foreign land
Sighs from holy Priestsdale stir the evening breeze
Wondering at mans cruelty to innocent as these
On a cool clean autumn morning the gentry well evolved as one (?)
To the new built lodge at Papadil the guns the gillies bore
The reeds and grasses whispered to the holy ones as these
Children in satanic mills died for the life of ease
The modern travellers weary gasp on the scene below
Ruined lodge and stricken trees mid primrose golden glow
On secret rock and hillock quiet spirits gently smile
Knowing that one the least of these would linger yet a while
Pale moonlight casts cold shadows on sterile counterpane
The useless restless fingers clutch and twist in vain
In far off lonely Preistdale the wise ones sit and wait
‘Come’ they whisper gravelley Come tis not to late.
Robert Fulton 21.08.2011
ANONYMOUS-ASTHMA 