The lights went out
for the final time
as the house empties
and darkness falls
Light is transferred
elsewhere
where life carries on
insouciant of ending
Where laughter
and joy
think not of the
sadness that came
The house is now void
memories flee
only the birds now remain
to remember
The empty chair
The chair stands empty
by the old book case
the cuckoo clock ticks
in a deserted room
The light flicks on
as the daylight fails
but no hand
operated the switch
The table's deserted
in the window corner
the birds sing
but none's there to hear
Soon the room will be empty
and bereft of life
as life has now ended
and we remember
At the end
At the end of the line
where loneliness ends
where bonds are cut
and others reforged
Reunited beyond pain
rejoined beyond road's end
we that are left behind
should rejoice at the end
At the end of the road
where suffering ceases
and all becomes clear
We are left behind
Where the Day breaks
and shadows flee away
where joy supersedes sorrow
and the light supplants dark
The one certainty in life
became true once more
the promise was held
and eternal rest is granted
The inscribed tower
The inscribed tower
will be a focal point again
this Sunday
for two minutes
We'll fall silent
as we read the names
their place in the hierarchy
now only of honour
The day they were lost
The years of their lives
No more than those listed
on the inscribed tower
The inscribed tower
village by village
town by town
for those few minutes
We will remember them
at land, sea or in the air
defending their today
so we can have our tomorrow
Not just for two minutes
not just on that one day
but every day
on the inscribed tower
will be a focal point again
this Sunday
for two minutes
We'll fall silent
as we read the names
their place in the hierarchy
now only of honour
The day they were lost
The years of their lives
No more than those listed
on the inscribed tower
The inscribed tower
village by village
town by town
for those few minutes
We will remember them
at land, sea or in the air
defending their today
so we can have our tomorrow
Not just for two minutes
not just on that one day
but every day
on the inscribed tower
Remembrance Day 2017
How many of the faces
our there on Cnoc nan Uan
who committed their life
to King and country that day
How many of the faces
setting out for service
with gallantry
and pride
How many of the faces
would come back one day
before the decade
ground to a close
How many of the faces
were closed over
by water,
earth or fire
How many of the faces
bore scars
visible
and invisible
How many of the faces
that day on Cnoc nan Uan
would return to remember
those that never came back
All Hallows' Eve
Summer is closing
Samhainn is near
The darkness descends
on a wet autumn day
The light is fast fading
as winter draws nigh
the fire'll be lit
on All Hallows' Eve
We must not forget
who left us this year
All Hallows is that time
to remember
Erista (2)
Warmth envelops
Those high up
On the ladder
Of age
Looking down
From up above
On the sands
Of their youth
No forward look there
Just a wistful glance
Down
Over many a long year
Cold the wind blows
Soon to carry aloft
Beyond cognisance
Of mortal man
The spirit of youth
From its greyed-out shell
Flies to
Tir-nan-Og
Those high up
On the ladder
Of age
Looking down
From up above
On the sands
Of their youth
No forward look there
Just a wistful glance
Down
Over many a long year
Cold the wind blows
Soon to carry aloft
Beyond cognisance
Of mortal man
The spirit of youth
From its greyed-out shell
Flies to
Tir-nan-Og
Erista (1)
Cold the wind blows
Over the lowly roofs
The brown hill looms
Over the demure houses
Stark the church stands
Exposed to the wind
Rushing in from the west
From across the Atlantic
Long since its bell
Has ceased to toll
Over the town
Of the church
Empty its shell
Greys up on the hillside
Remembering words
And psalms that resounded within
Over the lowly roofs
The brown hill looms
Over the demure houses
Stark the church stands
Exposed to the wind
Rushing in from the west
From across the Atlantic
Long since its bell
Has ceased to toll
Over the town
Of the church
Empty its shell
Greys up on the hillside
Remembering words
And psalms that resounded within
Remembering
When the men in black leave
when the traffic queues resolve
when the bus goes back to base
and the church is locked up
When they return home
to an empty chair
and a silence
never to be filled
When the sun finally sets
over distant hills
darkness looms large
as the sea ceaselessly moves
All that remains
will be a tall standing stone
inscription it'll bear
slowly to fade
You are not gone
you live on in us
as long as we remember
you live on in us
The sea will recall
and the wind will whisper
the wild birds cry out
as the seasons revolve
Your name on a stone
Your name in our minds
Your face in our minds
Your soul lives on in ours
when the traffic queues resolve
when the bus goes back to base
and the church is locked up
When they return home
to an empty chair
and a silence
never to be filled
When the sun finally sets
over distant hills
darkness looms large
as the sea ceaselessly moves
All that remains
will be a tall standing stone
inscription it'll bear
slowly to fade
You are not gone
you live on in us
as long as we remember
you live on in us
The sea will recall
and the wind will whisper
the wild birds cry out
as the seasons revolve
Your name on a stone
Your name in our minds
Your face in our minds
Your soul lives on in ours
Autumn
As the wind blows east
from distant climes
a hint of warmth
brings summer's end
The clouds now build
for the autumn's strife
between cold and warm
as the sun sinks south
With the equinox gone
leaves are turning
berries throng the trees
and birds heading south
Colour will soon fade
leaving just brown
yellow and black
as winter looms
National Poetry Day 2017
from distant climes
a hint of warmth
brings summer's end
The clouds now build
for the autumn's strife
between cold and warm
as the sun sinks south
With the equinox gone
leaves are turning
berries throng the trees
and birds heading south
Colour will soon fade
leaving just brown
yellow and black
as winter looms
National Poetry Day 2017
Dalmore
From the endless sea
a wave rolls in
like a drawn-out sigh
runs out onto the beach
The endless sky
of northern blue
with tufts of white
marches overhead
The sun yet low
over the darkened hill
brown green
yellow winter hue
Beyond the sea
in distant lands
beyond our knowledge
we may not venture
Its markers loom
in the sandy soil
where the memories fade
in illegible lines
We remember you
even if we never knew
so you'll forever live
on Dalmore beach
Langadale
Where eagles fly
and white hares run
the mice quiver
under fleeting winds
Rapaire juts out
under Stulabhal's bluff
where the path threads
up the mountain slope
Oft my feet
have waded the river
where it meanders
under Mullach's slopes
Crowned in cloud
the mountains rear
under northern sun
in Langadale
and white hares run
the mice quiver
under fleeting winds
Rapaire juts out
under Stulabhal's bluff
where the path threads
up the mountain slope
Oft my feet
have waded the river
where it meanders
under Mullach's slopes
Crowned in cloud
the mountains rear
under northern sun
in Langadale
Mealista
Nearing the end of the road
when the tarmac has ceased
the going gets tough
the ground only more rough
We think of you now
as sleep overtakes wakening
to not feel the pain
to not have to think
The road nears its end
but the light beyond it
grows brighter
in distant Tir nan Og
Where the nunnery stood
looking south down the narrows
past the abandoned isle
to the hamlet
At the end of another road
or maybe a new beginning
past the point of
our cognisance
Where the slipway lies
is the end of the road
into the sea
From cliff to Cliff Beach
The road goes ever on and on
with only the sky up above
darkness is falling
obscuring the other ways ahead
Although beauty was the day's work
Life's beauty was lost from sight
For what reasons
We may never know
Memories throng the mind
appearing to offer
a way to the light
the gate is yet closed
The last words were spoken
The beach smiles from afar
It beckons towards life
but darkness prevails
The gate is now open
The rocks come to an end
No other road now offers itself
One step
Torsten Kulke, aged 48, went missing near Aird Uig, Isle of Lewis, on July 28th, 2017. A body, thought to be his, was found washed up on nearby Cliff Beach on August 12th. May he rest in peace.
A name on a stone
A name on a stone
Forever staring east
until the breaking of the Day
when the shadows flee away
A name on her lips
another one of many
in the village looking west
she had given birth once more
A name on his lips
before the darkness fell
from the ceiling beam
from unsustainable life
A name on a form
all of them headed west
later to return
to fight for God knows what
A name on a berth
amended on the sheet
recording his journey into death
from gunshot wounds
A name on a box
headed for the wrong isle
no, he's not ours
but he'll be our hero for good
A name on a stone
a final resting place
not far from the eternal sea
RIP Donald Macleod 79110
Short story XXV
Mol. Not an English word. It's Gaelic. You won't get much more of that language in this story, this writer is unfamiliar with it. But Mol means a shingly beach, something that's quite common in these parts. The one that this story is going to be about is not easily found, if you don't know about it. It's off the beaten track, and even the beaten track is a difficult proposition in inclement weather. But it's not about the track, or how to get to the beach overland. Because, it's about the headland as well. The heathery headland. The shingly beach of the heathery headland. Mol Linginis.
Mol Linginis is now quiet. One of those corners of the islands where nothing ever moves. Oh, the odd sheep may amble through, nibbling the grass. The surf sloshes ashore at regular intervals, a bit more fierce when the wind is up. Quite a sheltered little place, really. Above the shingle is a small valley, and in its heart sit the remains of a few homesteads. It's half a century now, a little more, since Mol Linginis was left behind, and the last of its people went to their final resting place. The rowans remain beside the walls, and remember them. The south wind rustles their leaves.
Can't you remember, the south wind whispered. The rowan leaves rustled, turning fitfully in the wind. They remembered alright, the houses intact, the people quietly going about their daily lives. Lives being born, lives lived, lives that ended. Their sorrows, their joys. Their dreams, their despairs. The ones that left, never to return. The ones who left, through compulsion, for other pastures. The rowan sighed in the wind. The little stream trickled down the valley floor, to disappear into the shingle below the heathery headland.
Murmuring in its overgrown channel, the little stream made its way through Mol Linginis. It did not need reminding of what was once there. It remembered the day the last ones left, and the empitness left behind. The times a roof fell in, leaving the wild winds a free reign all around. Quietly, the stream disappeared into the shingle, into the Mol. The waves lapped ashore from Loch Trollamaraig beyond. Evening fell.
The dark sea heaved in long swells. On one corner of land, a lighthouse blinked its unseeing warning. A few miles north, the waves petered out on an unlit shingley strand. Round the corner, pinpricks of light could be made out across the water. But there was no occupied habitation at Mol Linginis to emit light. Loch Trollamaraig lay in darkness at its feet, its waves crashing ashore unheard. What they carried ashore remained hidden as yet.
Impenetrable darkness blanketed Mol Linginis. Not a single pinprick of light was visible from the Mol. None of the habitable houses left in the township was occupied. The slow pulse of the throbbing swell washing ashore continued unabated. The song of the stream, trickling in its overgrown bed, never stopped. Inexorably, the eastern horizon turned from black to deepest red. The rough outlines of islands became visible against the light of the new day.
Jagged teeth emerged into the red dawn, which also painted Mol Linginis a blazing colour. The Rough and House Island stood out in the distance, where they previously had lain hidden in the darkness. The swell imperceptibly rose, until it was thundering on the Mol. What it carried ashore was seen by nobody. The insouciant sheep were not interested. The homesteads overlooked the shingle, but did not see. The path into the little valley lay untrodden. For now.
The sun painted the surface of the sea a cardinal red as it rose above the mainland mountains. Like a path stretching east to west, touching Mol Linginis. Only the birds on the Rough and House Islands had watched the boat drifting past on the current, in the dawning light of day. Slung low in the water, partly filled with water. Nobody could see what was in the boat. There was nobody on the Galtanach that could.
The lighthouse winked its final flash of light, from above the white and red bands on its tower. Grey Island light is just round the corner from Mol Linginis, and looks out towards the Rough and House Islands. The sun took over the lighting of the paths of mariners across the Minch. One craft drifted slowly westwards, away from the jagged teeth of the Galtanach. None were watching from the shores of the Empty Quarter.
Not all made it home, that night. Only a quarter of them did. Not all were found, that day. A third of them were not. At least those that were found did not have far to go. Perhaps fifty yards to come ashore. Fifty yards too far, in that dreadful night. Some swam ashore, or tried to. Some took to the boats, or tried to. One boat drifted away, on the turning tide. It was not spotted from the nearby shores, or by passing mariners. The Blue Men of the Minch carried it round Kebock, past Milead, and through the Sound of Shiant, at the breaking of the day. Mol Linginis waited, still, quiet, breathless. Smoke swirled from the demure thatched houses, from where none stirred. At the noon hour, the boat ground ashore on the Mol. When the villagers made their discovery, the sun’s light was fading on that winter’s day. News had reached from the north, of one of their number not coming back from the war. The sea had taken – but on this occasion gave back. History does not record where his final resting place was. The shadow of an eagle passed high overhead. They nest in those abandoned hills, just across the water from Mol Linginis. Eagle is the English word for that magnificent bird of prey. I said before that my knowledge of Gaelic was very limited. But I do know the Gaelic for eagle. Iolaire.
Mol Linginis is now quiet. One of those corners of the islands where nothing ever moves. Oh, the odd sheep may amble through, nibbling the grass. The surf sloshes ashore at regular intervals, a bit more fierce when the wind is up. Quite a sheltered little place, really. Above the shingle is a small valley, and in its heart sit the remains of a few homesteads. It's half a century now, a little more, since Mol Linginis was left behind, and the last of its people went to their final resting place. The rowans remain beside the walls, and remember them. The south wind rustles their leaves.
Can't you remember, the south wind whispered. The rowan leaves rustled, turning fitfully in the wind. They remembered alright, the houses intact, the people quietly going about their daily lives. Lives being born, lives lived, lives that ended. Their sorrows, their joys. Their dreams, their despairs. The ones that left, never to return. The ones who left, through compulsion, for other pastures. The rowan sighed in the wind. The little stream trickled down the valley floor, to disappear into the shingle below the heathery headland.
Murmuring in its overgrown channel, the little stream made its way through Mol Linginis. It did not need reminding of what was once there. It remembered the day the last ones left, and the empitness left behind. The times a roof fell in, leaving the wild winds a free reign all around. Quietly, the stream disappeared into the shingle, into the Mol. The waves lapped ashore from Loch Trollamaraig beyond. Evening fell.
The dark sea heaved in long swells. On one corner of land, a lighthouse blinked its unseeing warning. A few miles north, the waves petered out on an unlit shingley strand. Round the corner, pinpricks of light could be made out across the water. But there was no occupied habitation at Mol Linginis to emit light. Loch Trollamaraig lay in darkness at its feet, its waves crashing ashore unheard. What they carried ashore remained hidden as yet.
Impenetrable darkness blanketed Mol Linginis. Not a single pinprick of light was visible from the Mol. None of the habitable houses left in the township was occupied. The slow pulse of the throbbing swell washing ashore continued unabated. The song of the stream, trickling in its overgrown bed, never stopped. Inexorably, the eastern horizon turned from black to deepest red. The rough outlines of islands became visible against the light of the new day.
Jagged teeth emerged into the red dawn, which also painted Mol Linginis a blazing colour. The Rough and House Island stood out in the distance, where they previously had lain hidden in the darkness. The swell imperceptibly rose, until it was thundering on the Mol. What it carried ashore was seen by nobody. The insouciant sheep were not interested. The homesteads overlooked the shingle, but did not see. The path into the little valley lay untrodden. For now.
The sun painted the surface of the sea a cardinal red as it rose above the mainland mountains. Like a path stretching east to west, touching Mol Linginis. Only the birds on the Rough and House Islands had watched the boat drifting past on the current, in the dawning light of day. Slung low in the water, partly filled with water. Nobody could see what was in the boat. There was nobody on the Galtanach that could.
The lighthouse winked its final flash of light, from above the white and red bands on its tower. Grey Island light is just round the corner from Mol Linginis, and looks out towards the Rough and House Islands. The sun took over the lighting of the paths of mariners across the Minch. One craft drifted slowly westwards, away from the jagged teeth of the Galtanach. None were watching from the shores of the Empty Quarter.
Not all made it home, that night. Only a quarter of them did. Not all were found, that day. A third of them were not. At least those that were found did not have far to go. Perhaps fifty yards to come ashore. Fifty yards too far, in that dreadful night. Some swam ashore, or tried to. Some took to the boats, or tried to. One boat drifted away, on the turning tide. It was not spotted from the nearby shores, or by passing mariners. The Blue Men of the Minch carried it round Kebock, past Milead, and through the Sound of Shiant, at the breaking of the day. Mol Linginis waited, still, quiet, breathless. Smoke swirled from the demure thatched houses, from where none stirred. At the noon hour, the boat ground ashore on the Mol. When the villagers made their discovery, the sun’s light was fading on that winter’s day. News had reached from the north, of one of their number not coming back from the war. The sea had taken – but on this occasion gave back. History does not record where his final resting place was. The shadow of an eagle passed high overhead. They nest in those abandoned hills, just across the water from Mol Linginis. Eagle is the English word for that magnificent bird of prey. I said before that my knowledge of Gaelic was very limited. But I do know the Gaelic for eagle. Iolaire.
Lengthening days
The day widens
in the land of trees
the bare branches smile
in the lengthening rays
The days broadens
in the far northwest
the lighthouse beckons
from the ancient rocks
Snow blankets still
the land of trees
frost paints
the expectant branches
Wind sweeps
in the ancient isles
clouds past the
ascending sun
Winter still holds
its firmest grip
yet the promise is there
for the coming spring
Melting snow
As the snow melts
from the land of trees
the Atlantic reaches
from beyond the shores
A reminder from far away
where winter
holds little
if any sway
Where the wind will blow
and the rain fall
where the low sun shines
for but few hours each day
The lighthouse winks
at those returning
and those departing
from near and far
The land of trees
holds memories
and I shall bide
a little while longer
Iolaire 1919-2016
Another day dawns
into another year
Glancing up northwest
where the memories abide
Headed home
that fateful morn
hopes dashed
on the Beasts at Holm
Nigh on a century gone
The memories raw
The teapot stands
where it stood in '19
Awaiting those
who would never return
from the depths
out at sea
From far away
my mind's eye beholds
the tower on the hill
overlooking the old town
We remember forever
those gone on ahead
in the service of their country
they gave up their all
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