Snug in your sea-circle you don’t
miss much.
Picts came first to give you eyes
to watch
A pair of rival saints, northmen
from the Lynn,
A princess to be held in Viking
stones,
Then crofters, lairds and tourists
for the trout
That lie by reeds in Fiart and
Kilcheran,
And all of Scotland from the Bàrr
Mòr.
A formal father was my island
friend
In gum boots, oilskin, rod and
chocolate.
Your lochs cast off the city man
With creak of rollock, gullcry,
fishy magic.
Bass wet with trout, nodding to
Cruachan,
We marched the catch to where his
love
Was coming round the mountains when
she came.
She often came, they went, but you
go on,
Green, limestone-ribbed and built
to last,
A storied headstone for their arch
of love,
A garden still, but not mine as
before.
Rooks cawed from elms and lambs
implored,
Brown trout still rose along the
reeds.
You told me what to do to get them
back.
‘You saw their love’, your
limestone said.
Rooks cried, ‘Find yours’ and lambs
implored.
I journeyed, tested, failed, and
fell
At last, for once, in love to bring
to you.
You saw me coming with my girl,
You held the sun above us and
approved.
December limestone rang with
Spring.
Marshall Walker