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The Cry of the Curlew
Images and Reflections on Beauty and Fragility
WIPE OUTS
Pass me that gripe
so I can stab
those clyping demons
obliterate the traitors
for rising from
their serpents’ lairs,
swooping, circling,
shrieking Satan’s cry,
bow-beaks pin-pointing
to the murdering king’s dragoons
our Covanter kin
cowering up the brae
Take that gripe.
Finish every Judas
while I scatter to the four winds
their pathetic scrapes,
ripping to ribbons the devil’s spawn.
That’ll larn them.