i <br /> <br />Native loneliness - <br />thigh-deep in that bracken moor <br />under standoff skies - <br /> <br />the flight of a single bird, or a God - <br />an eagle - and me, a child. <br />Then, winter; the cold blizzard <br /> <br />catching me again, alone <br />on the Tor; a drift <br />in the midst of the white-out: <br /> <br />what is God meaning? <br />Spring at the long since crofts; <br />forsaken, forlorn <br /> <br />rainfall rivulets; my own <br />self hearing unexplained songs; <br />then, June, sheep-shearing - <br /> <br />the shepherd’s unforgettable <br />smile, his head tilted: ah weel... <br />- himself and the dog. <br /> <br /> <br /> ii <br /> <br />Wynding down the stair, <br />my slippered feet on the pine <br />bare treads, to morning <br /> <br />breakfasts, where fire smoke <br />in the peaty-smelling room <br />mingles with syrup <br /> <br />floating the porridge; <br />scaling the brae at the back; <br />fetching birch-bundles: <br /> <br />it is the same lass <br />practising her soprano <br />vocals by the burn – <br /> <br />Lizz-y Lind-say. <br />It is my dad’s favourite. <br />I win a silver <br /> <br />medal for singing <br />this: the Lang prize, in the school; <br />Mr Patterson’s <br /> <br />nails clipping the keys <br />as he’s playing piano, <br />softly, tenderly... <br /> <br /> iii <br /> <br />When I was grown up <br />I took my own child; the Dee <br />wide as her brown eyes <br /> <br />under the stone bridge. <br />She had no shoes; the pebbles <br />as smooth and rounded <br /> <br />as slippery toes. <br />In the cottage, gas lamp glows <br />and thin candles lit <br /> <br />the girl’s room, our room <br />under the same old apex. <br />After prayers at night, <br /> <br />the Skye Boat Song sung <br />over and over, she’d sleep <br />in the same high bed; <br /> <br />her days, not like ours; <br />our days not like the others’ <br />who dwelt before us.<br /><br />Jacqui Thewless<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/glen-gairn-for-elaine/
