True, I am a Pict.
Those who used woad for their art.
Flaunted their fierceness.
My first petroglyph
The tall Craw Sten of Rhynie
Created with care.
When one carves with care
The chisel must always work
Away from weak points.
Such slow labored toil
Each petroglyph an art's work
Signed with date and name.
History in stone
Cementing the real true facts
Not lost in the Cloud.
Stones to be passed on
From generation to next
How long to survive?
I labored so hard
Travelling from festival
To the very next.
Carved more than ten hours
Then took an evening's rest
Woke to start again.
The Rhynie tall stone
Showed the Salmon / Pictish Beast
The hallowed two forms.
The Pictish herb woad
A mustard with blue leaf dye
Spread upon the skin.
So many patterns
Wolves, eagles, mirrors and such
Giving strength to live.
Carved Dunadd footstep
Each chief poured soil into it
Proclaimed loyalty.
The kingdom stayed strong
From year five to eight hundred
Then carvings did cease.
Lowlanders came strong
And as with all great kingdoms
The Picts interbred.
Now they are silent
Known only from standing stones
Real but as soft ghosts.
Do you wish to carve
Be ready to lift great weights
Shifting much around.
Complete work of art
Difficult to pass it on
New owner must know.
To pass on art form
Need a devoted student
With patience and strength.
Know these stones will last
Far beyond any lifetime
Legacy remains.
So may my children
Gaze upon these stones with pride
Feeling my presence.