by David James Ross
King Brude is partying on Craig Phadrig -
The sky’s aflame. On St Michael’s Mount
The monks are singing sweet sacred songs.
Along Ness Walk, by the river, the ghosts
Of genteel Invernesians still promenade
Politely conversing, arm in long-dead arm.
There’s a committee of neo-Goths meeting
In the Town House – windows spill anarchy
Down Bridge Street, along the High Street.
Baron Taylor’s Street is one pulsing throng
Of gibbering imps and loud, drunken demons,
And angels are dancing down Rainings Stairs.
In Tomnachurich Street, Bonnie Prince Charlie
Gingerly side-steps neat regimented ranks
Of the blood-stained, tartan-shrouded dead.
A witches’ coven on Castle Hill is cooking up
A rare brew - alone in his cold, dark castle
Deceived, demented Macbeth sits brooding.
And out of the River Ness, before St Columba’s
Very eyes, rears a huge beast of hideous aspect -
To his horror, it kneels to receive his blessing.