Moth on a Thistle

Moth on The Thistle….

A moth lands upon a lone Scots thistle,
then flits across the open field.
Can you not hear the robin’s pure whistle,
sound carries, across their shield.

But still is my heart, so quiet is the land,
hush and hear brave men that fell.
A country apart, with wars badly planned,
truths that only they should tell.

Spoken in whispers, men are deceased,
swords lie rusting on bloody green grass.
Free now are they from the warring beast,
wind blows, withered leaves rustle past.

That morn they had stood free upon the rise,
all brave men but still some uncertain.
Heavy their hearts and sad their eyes,
that men they’d fight, could wear tartan.

No Trojan horse needed to enter a Scots gate,
just simplest gold coin of the realm.
Curse all the lairds who’d played with men’s fate,
not long should they live at our helm.

The story told is old now,
but scars heal very slow