Est-ce que c’est vraiment la poesie?

When I don’t know how to title these blogs, I write in French.
Tomorrow I’m getting on a train to Edinburgh. Well, two trains actually. And a brief period of transit by the Chthonic Railway. Then, after a day in Dùn Èideann, I shall speed northwards (O, most beautiful of words) and on to Inverness, where my aunt and uncle live with their dogs and occasionally present children.
I adore Scotland, and being there feels wonderful. I’m really looking forward to it.

Having discovered today a new form of poetry, the Villanelle, I undertook it to write my own:

Mother Alba

From deepest loch to highest mountain crest
Where Roebuck still runs wild in wooded dell
In mother Alba will my soul find rest

My fealty is not fulsome, sworn in jest
This be the soil where I shall seek to dwell
From deepest loch to highest mountain crest

With Eagle’s teaching will I build my nest
I’faith, I can without a doubt foretell:
In mother Alba will my soul find rest

Upon a peak I proudly will attest:
O Fairland, Scotland, know I love thee well
From deepest loch to highest mountain crest

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I send a thousand prayers to old Gods, lest
This bitter moment be the last Farewell
In mother Alba will my soul find rest

Yet even if I ache with laden breast
For ancient Scotia’s every slope and swell
From deepest loch to highest mountain crest
In mother Alba, will my soul find rest?
 
A much better one is Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas.