Scottish Bog Body

In the layer below prayer

he kneels in odd supplication

to something we no longer have words for.

(Said in Gaelic, Scots or Norn

still means nothing.)

There might have been a blue bonnet

left askew in the pit beside him,

fallen from the orange squashed skull

in sad commentary.

Remnants of barley twisted hair

(bad harvest on the road to death;

last breath a fog curse with last gasp).

His tongue lolling out like a tripe,

trying to say too much for a lifetime,

which may have been his undoing.

He wore blue and green

(we might have known),

but no tartan rags be-ribbon his bones.

A hundred years ago an old crofter

uncannilly uncovered him while stacking

his creel with muirland peat,

and brought a bottle of malt to the place,

gave Auld Mac a nip (so christened him),

said it was cauld for the time of year,

then got disgusted with his whimsy,

then put the sod back over,

like a quilt that would keep out no winter

ever.

Auld fore-faither, who never learned from

the bitter ways of this land,

better you grizzle and rest forever,

twenty centuries and counting under moss,

watching Scotland above, bereft,

sadly unmouring your loss.