by Doreen Hopwood

I sense your coming, Caledonian witch.
Your essence travels through the rich
earth of my resting place
as you climb the long, green procession,
breathing the cool autumn air, taking possession
of my soul once more.

The stones of my Death Palace stand silent,
Sarsen Warriors, frozen in time, sent
to guard me through eternity,
crowding round me as I sleep,
dreamless, awaiting your return, deep
within my hilltop tomb. 

What tales are written on your painted flesh?
Whose besotted hands dared caress
your tattooed cheekbones?
Was I the only one?
Did another mouth kiss your breasts,
Alban sorceress?

Why do you journey South again
from your Northern fastness of wind and rain?
You stole my heart and filled the space
with poison, leaving me in a desolate place,
devoid of love, tricked
by your Pictii magic.

And here you are, relentless in your quest
to claim my soul, to disturb the rest
I have possessed for long centuries,
my people's glories
forgotten and lost forever
by those who do not care.

Come then, dazzle my chamber with your smile,
remind me of your beauty and your wiles,
of how your body made me feel,
but remember this as you steal
down the dank, damp passageway,
I am not here, I am long gone and far away.

©10th October 2006, Doreen Hopwood