It was a dark and bleak existence,
In the mist and rain of the north,
The black shroud of the night time,
Replaced by fog as day comes forth.
A tumbled down hut in the highlands,
Lived a family of hardened farmers,
Growing what they can make grow,
Including a small herd of llamas.
The hut of many different timbers,
Dripped with the liquid north wind,
Shivered in the blast of bitter arctic,
Against it the walls are firmly pinned.
The family lived in year round winter,
The summer sun was too weak,
Their eyes never adjusted to the light,
They needed every sense to seek.
The years passed by on the moor,
Snows came and never receded,
Over staying it’s chilled welcome,
Plants died and never reseeded.
The family’s food stores dwindled,
The llamas sustained their lives,
The hardy beasts were the saviours,
Without them nobody survives.
The highland weather rolled on,
Never loosening its wintry grip,
Snow on frost on ice on snow,
Even inside the air began to nip.
Outside the darkness intensified,
The night pressed on their eyes,
But without giving them warning,
Something fell out of the skies,
The flash startled all of the family,
The llamas herd began milling,
Light nothing near had experienced,
Flickered off view, life instilling.
A warming glow radiated outwards,
From a fiercely burning fur tree,
But this was no ordinary burning bush,
Setting the Scottish power free.
Burning the snow from the land,
Parting the clouds from the sky,
Sun shone on the highland moors,
Life was taking to the air to fly.
The Scottish power filled the air,
Making this a bountiful country,
The family grew strong and spread,
All exploding from that one tree.
The Scottish people are so proud,
Of their ancient ancestor’s plight,
Yearly they celebrate their history,
Not just a poet on Burns night