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Footprints
From my bedroom window
- the window on my world -
I see Hamilton and beyond
(comforting and familiar).
A chronicled melting pot
of Celts, Romans, Scots,
Vikings and Normans;
religious reformers and non-reformers.
And out of this pot we stand
a much of a muchness,
with our history etched
upon the landscape.
That old Roman road which
long ago lead everywhere,
now leads nowhere,
but still beckons onwards - defiant.
The Netherton cross carved with
the hopes and struggles of Celtic life,
stands proud and enduring
in a post-reformation churchyard.
The feudal bastion that is Bothwell castle
unashamedly flaunts its scars from
siege after siege after siege,
and looks down majestically on the diuturnal
- the river Clyde - the all-seeing one
winding its course to the open sea.
This chiselled panorama of ambition
bequeathed by those who settled here
and those who passed through;
proclaiming their intentions
still visible on each Roman paving stone,
each Celtic cross, each castle wall.
The river watched
and bathed their dreams in immortality.
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