whispered on the moor
a dream came to me recently
it broke through the morning
past sunrise
and into my waking thoughts
in this dream
I walk the rocky shoreline
of a rust-coloured beach
finding coins along the way
over and over
I place these treasures
into my palms
pounds, shillings and pence
the further I walk
the more coins I find
I rub the green patina
of a livre, France 1745
I am suddenly transported
to another time
wearing my Ogilvy tartan
at the battlefield at Culloden
my eyes cast upon an enemy
a brutal campaign
of violent effort
with no apparent victory
an Ogilvy flees to France
many more lie buried
'neath the headstones of Scotland
their secrets, whispered on the moor
these histories,
by way of dreams
guide me to my ancestors
place me at the altars
of knowledge, asking that I find them
the Gaelic has been speaking
for some time now
each word I hear
further lifts the veil of time
calibrating me to the past
my ancestors know the door to me
they leave clues, inform me in sleep
delineating the truth of who I am
and what I ken
all of these treasures,
the bones,
like dragonflies in amber
record everything
asking that we remember
