The battlefield gleams intermittently beneath a weak sun on light snow but remains cold and still
Down past the silent graves (speaking volumes) past the monument the clamor and clash of battle the stramash and passion the heat and smoke hot blood turning cold as it met the air on an April day
Highlanders slaughtered like wounded cattle, the Government injured carried to the dark bloodied cottage where crude instruments cut short their silence or their screams
On a late February afternoon the fatal landscape shines blackly as the thin snow melts over peat, looking like puddles of old blood between the tussocks.
Culloden was the last battle fought on Scottish soil
