Sunset Lament ©
Stella
Fife, Scotland
2005
Never a prophet in our own village
The streets once played on are unkind
Should the muse visit and insist on being heard
So sad that a village cannot claim its own
And dance to the tune first heard
Along with the tackets on the boots in its streets
The wealth contained within the novel
Where Chris meets Ewan and the Mearns mourn
Beside the standing stones …enrich our nation
Enraged at bones laid bare
The good folk's tongues clattered
As he knew they would
What price to be paid
To capture the rapture of the ages
And spell out for eternity a love story
No one is a prophet in their own village
But the muse must be obeyed
At whatever cost
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