Thicken fog on a Scottish moor; names of past called out McClure clan in black watch kilts; ghost that stroll the hills The night so dark; the moon asleep; A trek imprinted in every mind A walk taken year by year, since the start of time Candles lit to mark each name, and cut the congealed vale Faces glow; in each eye a tear, as the generations kneel Thirty years times thirty, now to present day Kith and kin, circle round the McClure stone to pray Every eve upon this date, the ritual of names The list is read from first to end; then passed and read again From the oldest man to the youngest child, the names will pass each lip Then the McClure goblet, passed around, from which all descendants sip Once every name is read aloud: the empty goblet turned The sheep skin parchment tightly rolled then tucked within its sheath Placed within the wood carved box; another year to keep A tear is wiped, the flames extinguished; all receive a hug Quietly, all’s disbursed; single file they leave Nary another word is said The long trek back, is for the clan, to reminisce and grieve