Hebridean poems

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Midnight on Lewis


Endless sky, translucent blue

fading to white where it touches

staccato blackness -

gorse, heather and broom.

The steady pounding of a hammer

breaks the silence

a lone crofter repairs his fence

in the dusk-light.

A yellow orange glow

gleams, square from the croft-house windows

Blue-grey clouds hover like dragons

motionless in the bright midnight sky.


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Sollas Cottage



Across windswept moors,

barren rocks flung carelessly

by a giant hand

fierce-looking highland cattle

block the road.


Over the crest of the hill

an old croft-house,

white-washed walls, red tin roof.

A spiral of smoke rising from the chimney.

The aroma of peat pervades the air.


Our car bumps along the grassy track

across dung-sprinkled fields

Through the rusty metal gate,

we enter the acre of rough scrub-land

that makes up the croft.


Through a cobwebbed window

in the thick stone wall

we peer into a tiny bedroom.

Flowery curtains,

age-stained wallpaper,

iron bedstead, dark oak wardrobe,

a fire burning in the grate,

vainly attempting to disperse

the all-pervading damp.


Deep within my pocket

I find a rusty key,

unlock the heavy front door, enter

the sparsely furnished kitchen.


Later I walk into the garden,

wade through unkempt grass

peer over the dry-stone wall

at the vast expanse of silver sand

Stretching for miles

across a tidal strand to a deserted island

and ruined mansion.

*