In an Edinburgh square, pale frosty dawn,
my collar upturned to ward off the sleet
a-pattering on the grey stony lawn
of slate flagstones and cobblestone streets.
I see a creature of myth that flies a flag:
The unicorn wields a white cross
and spites iron clouds of sullen ****:
Her golden horn gleams in the dross
of short winter days of sickly suns.
As daybreak crawls out slowly from grey
and fog’s misty veil turns light to dun,
I long for a glimpse of sun’s gilded rays.
This Scottish sunrise sends its weak beams
of wan threads of silver to kiss the gold
which sheathes the unicorn’s horn and gleams:
Her white coat shimmers in summers foretold.
Her sunbright horn pierces the pall
of grim grey winter’s grip on my heart —
In this moment her lightness enthralls,
her horn a flame that freedom imparts.
Inspired by a photo I took of Mercat Cross in Edinburgh. It is a column topped by Scotland’s heraldic symbol, a white and gold unicorn, which is holding a standard with the Cross of St. Andrew. The day was very gloomy and dreary, but the unicorn seemed to shine out.