Heather Nightshade

few remember the music

of the oddly named band

for there are no recordings

(except for the wild vibrations bled

into the fabric of everything)

and there are only one or two

still alive who can recount

haltingly without

distortion what it meant

to be part of it then

of heather

of the family ericaceae

the pink and purple

brush of the moors

long since domesticated

into cultivars

that pay a certain homage

to their medieval lineage

of nightshade

of the order solanales

with the lavender

flowers and the black

berries poisonous

hallucinatory

conjuring images

of the witch

with her cape

and the dark age

that follows

of the small band

committed to the

reverberation

of chords plucked

from the strings

of their guitars

to the harmony

of their voices and

the haunting prayer

of the lone singer

to the name

stitched from

the two flora

that grow together

it is told

like life like death

upon the heath

from abandoned gardens

from muted hillsides

descending to the

rutted roads and

muddy byways of

the scottish highlands

these days

showmen

are all

ambition

untethered

from

conviction

but back then

in those lost hours

in the dying city

by the river

in the candle-lit dark

art was all

conviction unspoiled

by ambition

or any strategy

we can recall

to make it last