Clan tartan drapes his wounded shoulder,
Our thistle pin, worn with pride.
His horse dead,
In the thick squelching muck of the battle field.
Still, he runs forward,
Slashed and charred.
He drags his sword across the grass mounds,
That has avaided,
Stomping hoof and foot of rage.
He sees no end to this battle wide spread.
But in his mind a friend.
Where comfort,
Food and lament awaits him.
Warm hearts of those he battles for.
I'll get there,
He swears to his people.
As tear trails track,
His mudded wounded cheeks.
His hair locks matted,
With the blood of the enemy.
Tieing them back with a string of determining hope,
He says,
This battle will end .
Yes you! Clan Leader shall glory.
For if you are hearing this,
You'll know your Clan has won,

My Scottish Warrior

25/8/13.