By Kathleen Thomas, age 14, Maine
Whispers of the past
Whirl in hidden stone grooves,
In carved swirls, engraved symbols.
The crumbling brick holds time as a mortar
Mixed with distant echoes.
For a moment,
You see everything through a strange lens,
Distorted by imagination:
Flashes of dyed wool in a rough cloak,
Chants shouted in thick brogues,
Swords clanging and ringing
Through stone courtyards,
Pure mist rising above the pines,
The savory scent of a lamb
Cooked over dancing flames.
Then, the sensations wink out all at once.
You no longer see the long-forgotten battles
Or smell the dead embers
Of a thousand-year-old cooking fire.
The wild cries have left,
And so has the peaceful silence of an ancient morning.
The wailing of pipes departs,
Leaving only the Scottish ruin with a long memory.
