Pictish Stone

When the day is gold and all around,

Comes a roaring gale upon the skies,

The pines shall lift the weary ground,

And howl and blister in their rise.

Beyond the wood there stands a stone,

For which no language can define,

Alone unmoved, the ancient throne,

Of Man and Nature does entwine.

Beheld within a tale foreseen,

A timeless face considered old,

Till all is lorn in mosses green,

Rise vast gales that do take hold.

Now yearning for what life had been,

For a tale half told,

For a past unseen.

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