Escaping Culloden

Culverins fired.
Crocks rattling against the walls of her stone farmhouse
Rhona crammed memories inside a sporran: her wedding shift, mother’s thimble, dead daughter’s rattle.
After two months of eating nothing but apples, the shift no longer fit.
Still, Rhona needed something to remind her of happier days.

“Head north,” her husband had instructed before falling in with the Jacobites.
“Bring the stones to ensure your passage.”

Clothed in dark trousers and a clan MacDougall shawl
Rhona pushed through a crush of villagers, moving south.
Enveloped in billowing smoke,
she hoped no one would notice the ruby earrings hidden beneath her hair.

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