Harlaw – by Maggie Fraser
They edge onto the field wi' nothing ' but
Whimperin' bairns, clingin tae their skirts.
There's no golden harvest time to fill their belly,
Maybe if the stench of blood and guts had not been so strong…
Maybe if the horror at the waste had not been
So
heart-breaking on top of the gnawing hunger…
Maybe if the sounds of the dying, wailing and
Moaning hadn't added to their feelings of hopelessness and helplessness
They might have gathered more of anything and everything
That could be exchanged, for
Something useful. But No!
The only things to be gleaned here were the endless
Tears o' women looking for their ain kith and kin
The men they loved.
The fathers' o the bairns they hadn't lost