Oh the cold air of the Kishorn burial ground, <br />and the ghost's there everywhere you turn, <br />the cold and the damp seems to follow you down, <br />to the brackish waters of the Russel Burn. <br /> <br />The Burn, the blood, and the porcelain shard, <br />an aching mitt and another lesson to learn, <br />I numb the hand and the ghost of the churchyard, <br />in the brackish waters of the Russel Burn. <br /> <br />There's a heart as cold as the Wester Ross, <br />there are ties that bind like a highland fern, <br />there's a sullied figurine nailed to a cross, <br />and the brackish waters of the Russel Burn. <br /> <br />The ghosts leave traces of residual pain, <br />as the ashes scatter from a broken urn, <br />tainted and tarnished and never the same, <br />oh the brackish waters of the Russel Burn.<br /><br />Peter Strugnell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-russel-burn/
