By Scott Bailey © 2014

The thistle embraced the wilting rose
Joined the lands as one
Wars still rumbled across hill and plain
Dividing faith from faith

The stewards who ascended high
Would rise and fall and rise
Held heads so high they thought divine
Then tumbled to the ground

Sons of the island lost to war
The people scarred and tired
One form of tyrant sent to death
Another imposed dark law

Return and rise the steward’s house
Shaky on the seat
Look to longingly to the holy see
The thistle withered away

In response to my daily prompt North

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