Memories made,
my healing found,
serenaded sweet
by the bagpipes ancient sound.
From my first step
onto her cobblestoned streets
to the last farewell tram ride
as I fought not to weep,
I felt as though I’d gone home.
Edinburgh rises high below the lowland
mountains of majesty
formed by painstaking toil.
She unfolds before me,
centuries peeled away
brick by brick
cobblestone by cobblestone.
We weave around
the closes and courtyards,
abbeys and alleyways,
palaces, and places
in the vaults, where
no one dares go alone.
Shops line The Royal Mile,
Old Town/New Town,
Princess Street
blending into an ancient mega metropolis
promising the best and cheapest
bits of Scotland.
They hawk their tartans and treats to tourists;
magnets and mugs,
Harris Tweed highs,
bagpipes and coos
whisky and flat whites.
And haggis.
Can’t forget the haggis.
Victoria Street winds
in technicolor around an uphill bend.
Vibrant hues
and windows full
of magical baubles
calls to mind He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
and The Boy Who Lived.
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
In a Storytellers’ Centre
The Craft comes alive.
It flourishes and survives
centuries after
The Burning Times.
Spirits are summoned—
I feel them rise
—in a house of the reformer
who struck down their lives
murdering in the name of his god—all lies.
His fiercest weapon – a patriarchal mind.
Images and art
rhythms and rhyme,
souls meeting souls
after all this time.
We come together
for thousands of lives lost.
We stand together
regardless of cost.
A bit of Rowan
tucked in my heart
secures my connection, protection,
and healing.
Summoned by Maiden,
Mother, Hag and Crone, and by
Auld Horney who stands alone,
on his own.
4,000 souls on tapestries,
charcoal etchings, in poetry.
The survivors sing sweet
for those who perished.
The survivors speak out
for those who were felled.
The survivors rise up,
no longer quelled.
We celebrated with a shot of whisky
a hearty lager
and a haggis tower
at a local pub.
It was a good, a long day
in a place
where daylight never ends.
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
Shutters drawn back
greeting the early morning sun,
perched at my Gayfield Square kitchen table.
Tapping out memories,
reliving the dream in cropped photos,
“poyems,” and prose.
4:30 a.m. and the magpie calls.
4:30 a.m. and my feet are aching
to pave another three-mile path
of this still-so-surreal reality.
A tour of the castle
(the views were the best)
but the pomp and the grandeur left
much to be desired.
It was beautiful, yes.
And a reminder to test
the powers that be and their motives.
A moment of prayer at the chapel,
the stark shout of the 1 o’clock gun
and then we were done—
off on our own excursion.
With determination
we were led and found
-waterless and overgrown-
the Witches Well,
it’s message
no longer flowing, but forgotten.
The real tribute -a heart
etched in cobblestone-alone-
no words to mark or
record the horror.
A Kurdish meal and history
soothed the aching,
filled the need,
for sustenance and then the day was done.
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
A hearty Scottish breakfast
black pudding, baked beans, and haggis.
I prefer my crumpets buttered,
heaped with raspberry jam,
and a cuppa tea, light with sugar and cream.
Maybe I’m a vegetarian after all?
We skipped around town
following a silly witch with a hat and a broom,
weaving our way to the sites
seen and unseen.
A drinking fountain turned planter-
a forgotten reminder of the terror.
A stone heart on the street-
marking their demise and defeat.
A crescent moon in a church window-
we are everywhere, you know.
A yellow marker where we
danced and stomped our rebellious feet
in mock tribute of the truest devil and evil
to ever walk this road.
And it felt so good.
Across the Firth to sacred ground
more cobblestones
and we finally found
ourselves
full circle before an abbey
on St. Margaret’s Street.
The Pearl of Scotland called me home again.
Touching my heart, the Queen asked, “Ya ken?”
I walked the grounds that lay before me
and came to learn the life I lived
was more than just an accident.
She beckoned, reckoned,
summoned me
to face, embrace the pain I feel,
and promised in doing so I’d be set free.
And so I was.
Out of respect, the rain stayed away
as the wind whispered and raged.
A piper played and eight women read names,
hearts wrenched with the calling
of those known as unknown.
UNKNOWN. UNKNOWN. Unknown.
A poet moved our minds,
a singer sang a song.
Their words wove around me
and my heart sang along.
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
I spoke to the North Sea
honoring my ancestry
that crossed this way
a thousand years ago.
I heard the witches
whispering in the wind
knot magicking my hair,
as they bound my heart and soul—so clever.
Sand filtered through my hands
a shell and a rock jammed
as I drew my crescent on the land.
Now a part of me will remain—forever.
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
Two busloads met
in the early morn.
Jampacked with tourists, we set
out for the ride of my life.
We wound our way north
through city streets,
across the Firth of Fourth,
listening to a playlist by Saorsi.
All the while she filled our heads
With bits of history and then
I’d quickly steal a photo
blurred by my own reflection.
Mountainsides speckled
with sheep and coos,
with pink rhododendrons
and castle views.
And then we were there
on the shores of Loch Ness
with Castle Urquhart standing
(more or less)
a foreboding reminder of battles fought
And how history teaches naught.
A quick sail across the waters of Ness,
a loch the home of the famous monsteress.
Shadows lurked below the waters deep
as images of Nessie slipped and peeked
into my imagination.
And then we docked
by the Witches Rock—
a reminder that there’s no room for ego.
We made our way through Inverness,
guided by road signs in Scott Gaelic.
A soft gasp as we passed by MacBain’s pub—
a tribute to no one, now there’s the rub.
We paused by the kirk (mentioned in my book)
Then rounded a roundabout
that wound our way out
by the road that led
to the moors of Culloden.
I wept as we passed,
Hand pressed against the glass.
Wondering if we’d taken the wrong tour.
A stop for whisky ice cream
and then we were done.
A phone full of pictures
my legs and feet worn.
Back to the flat
to plan what was in store
for our very last day
in Scotland.
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
A tour of Holyrood Palace
Showed us how the other half lived.
We cast our eyes upon the ancients
lining the walls of the Great Room and waited.
Their whispers were white noise,
their stories were blood-stained.
Their noses? An artist’s rendition.
I saw the place where Mary’s friend
was struck down because he was a man.
His life force left pink beneath layers of varnish.
We climbed the stone steps to her chamber
And felt the pain retained there
In the walls
and floors
and cupboards.
In the brilliant gardens we breathed,
realizing nothing has changed in humanity.
We are still steeped in secrets, in honor, and greed.
Tucked away in a corner
of The Writers’ Museum,
we stood before his writing pen,
touched furniture that may have
filled his den.
Wrapped in silence and we looked for him.
But there was no sign of Scotland’s Favorite Son.
Moving onward, with much ado
we checked off our list of things to do:
a magic shop, whisky shop, and D&D stuff.
just outside Maggie Dickson’s pub
we grabbed a burger and a stout
and raised our glass to Maggie with a shout.
Sitting aloft a hop on hop off
across this majestic town at dusk.
At the feet of the poet in a monument caged
weeds rise in homage and disarray
of the late and great Robbie Burns.
A stone statue is all that’s left
But here he is and here I am
And it just is.
I recall his words and miss the man,
standing in his homeland
a few centuries too late.
“We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since days of long ago.”
A magpie sang sweetly
out our flat window,
carrying a song
to remind me
not everything is black and white.
Sometimes there is a bit of blue.
And then at last
our time had come.
We packed our bags,
dreaded heading home.
A list of things with no time to do—
bookstores, whisky tours,
a hill or two.
A kirkyard, more shops,
an extended stay
in the highlands for more than just one day.
More time to reflect.
More time to connect
with the sister witches
I knew before we met.
Stones exchanged.
Trinkets shared.
The connections made
now forged and seared.
Memories made,
my healing found,
serenaded sweet
by the bagpipes ancient sound.
Scotland Forever.
Janine Phillips
June, 2024
Janina Grey 