Sailor's dilemma

I've got the sailor's dilemma
When at sea
I long for the land
When ashore, I pine for the sea

The land of trees
draws me out
to its endless moors
and sighing woods

The Atlantic fringe calls
from the far northwest
The ancient fortress
buttressing the ocean

Memories walk
the treelined paths
thereby generating
even more

The open skies call
The wind searches round
The Atlantic thunders
my name

When I return north
the wind in the trees
will call and look round
waiting for me

I've got the sailor's dilemma
When at sea
I long for the land
When ashore, I pine for the sea

November story - complete

In the pitch black of the night, only the stars provided light. Innumerable pinpricks of light, some faint, some bright, of all colours visible to the human eye. Some clumped together, others far apart. Below the pivotal point, around which they appeared to rotate, a curtain of green arose. Fading, brightening. Gradually changing hue, changing colour. Mesmerising. Outlined in black against the green of the aurora were two figures, entranced by the display which continued soundlessly. Far below them, at the bottom of the cliff where they were watching, the Atlantic surf broke against the ancient coastline. Jagged rocks peeked out from the sea, becoming submerged every few moments as another wave broke. The spray nearly reached the top of the cliff and the two watching took a step back, to stay safe. A faint light began to paint the eastern horizon grey, then white as the decrescent moon rose. As it cleared the horizon, a beam of reflections led across the water. The aurora began to fade from the north, leaving only a glow of green on the far horizon.

The waning moon rose, casting an eerie light. The wind rose too, fragmenting the beam of reflections across the miles of sea as the water began to ripple. A hint of greater darkness on the eastern horizon intimated the presence of another landmass. Row upon row of fence posts could just be made out either side of the roadway, held together by straggling lengths of barbed wire. Shadows of white moved slowly, but unseen by human eyes. At the road junction, a smell of burning peats wafted from nearby houses. The lateness of the hour meant that few lights were on, just the security lights - although many in the northern townships would chuckle at the concept of such a thing being needed. A dog barked. A car's security system beeped, indicator lights flashed twice, then two doors banged shut. The engine started, the headlights went on. The vehicle moved ahead, away from the junction and followed the road as it curved left. From the darkness of the bus shelter, a figure stepped into the roadway.

In the darkness of the night, the beams of the headlights roved across the landscape. The road wound its way across the flat landscape, indiscernible, even in the faint light of the moon to the east. Buildings flashed by, and presently, a row of lights, indicating the next village loomed up ahead. The streetlights were switched off as it was well past midnight. Only outside lights in the houses provided some illumination. The vehicle stopped, and the engine was switched off. A door opened, and the driver stepped out, holding a torch. A stile appeared in its beam, and the man stepped up and sat on the top step. Darkness enveloped him, but sounds carry further when there is no light - perhaps because other senses become more acute when one is inactive. Nocturnal sounds of birds in the near distance, beyond the next field. A small bird reserve. Looking east, a few birds could be seen against the light of the moon, now rising clear of nearby houses. After a few minutes, the car drove off again, into the next village. The road signs at the junction reflected brightly in its headlights, pointing left to the end of the road - and right towards the main town, more than 25 miles away to the south. Silence fell again as the night started to grow old. Soon, dawn would break.

Nobody stirred abroad along the village street. The streetlights were out, and only the moon provided illumination. Shadowy figures presently made their way past the darkened houses, following the gentle curve of the street. A large modern building marked the end of the built-up area, with a few lights showing a sign for a restaurant. In the near distance, the surf could be heard, making a dull thud as each wave rolled ashore. The village, at the top of a steep escarpment, slept through the sound, as it had done for centuries. A boat slowly made its way past the end of a pier, a search light briefly flashing to guide it to a mooring. The three figures made their way from the roadway onto the pier, taking care on the slippery slope. A particularly large wave thrashed ashore on the beach nearby. The boat turned round after taking its passengers ashore and headed out to sea. Cealagbhal slept.
Beyond the sea in the east, the sun climbed over the horizon, flooding the empty moorland with colour. The colour was brown. The land was broken, broken by the hand of man. For many generations, the top layer had been stripped away for fuel, to heat the homes of the villages to the north. And still, many miles of untouched moorland awaited the generations to come. The last village had been left behind an hour before and the straight track continued south. Gently, the landscape changed as another valley merged in from the south and some habitation crept into view. Houses - except they were only half-sized. Scattered over a sward of green, along the line of a small stream that gabbled its way to the sea. The track ended abruptly at a stone bridge across the stream; a path climbed up the far side. Far out at sea, a small boat could be seen, making its way towards the small bay which welcomed the stream to the bosom of the sea. It had taken its time to cover the four miles from Cealagbhal.

Complete silence ruled, where many once congregated in summer. Paled charts adorned the walls, blackened kettles rested on rusted grates, and old photographes, slowly turning sepia through sheer old ages, hung above the fireplace. Many of the faces had gone from this world, now only living in others' memories. Cups stood on draining boards, where they had been left, one forgotten autumn ago. Their abandonment often confirmed by the state of the locks, holding the doors against the weather. Rusted shut, for good. The wind gently blew around the sheiling huts. Dozens would spend long forgotten summers there, fattening up their cattle for the harshness of winter. Merry voices echoed along the valley, games played and meals made. All gone with the winds of change. Six days they would tend their kyne and enjoy the open space of Cuidhsiadar. On the seventh day, their spiritual needs were tended to in the old chapel, high up on the clifftop, south of the sheilings. But that too now stood roofless, derelict and open to the mercies of the harsh Minch winds. The low sun cast shadows, but some moved. Filiscleitir had attracted attention, but attention whose intentions were diametrically opposed to the use of the chapel there.

The pale blue of the Hebridean sky deepened as the sun angled towards the southwestern horizon. Its last rays touched the old chapel and the ruinous house on the cliff edge, before disappearing behind the uncaring hills. A chill wafted across from the nearby sea as darkness fell. Nothing moved. Not even the seabirds, which had hurried to their cliffside roosts. A small boat made its way south, past the high cliffs of Filiscleitir, after leaving the nearby shoreline at Cuidhsiadar. Those on board did not care about what they had left behind, and even less about what the consequences of their actions would be. A late walker crossed the bridge from Cuidhsiadar and gained the heights near the chapel. Perhaps a good place to spend the night. Soon, a tent appeared near the end of the track, and flames joyfully leapt up into the gathering night sky. Their shadows only just touched the walls of the chapel. They only served to obscure what had been left there.

The wind sighed through the browned grasses of winter, now encrusted with a delicate selection of rime. The sun climbed over the eastern horizon, which showed a jagged outline of distant mountains. Slowly the icy gems melted into tiny drops of water, clinging on to the dead stems. The rigid surface of the moorland loch imperceptibly resumed its motion in the winter wind. Apart from the demure hues of brown, green, yellow and black, a garish blot of red and blue could be seen at the shore of the lake. Just some bits and pieces left behind from summertime. Out of place, though. The trail north towards Filiscleitir was a very rough affair, the traveller having to negotiate tall ridges of peat, and there was no shelter on the way. Who would want to leave their coat or whatever behind in such inhospitable terrain? A man slowly made his way south from Filiscleitir, the chapel walls now standing out white far behind him. Out at sea, a boat was making its way north, past Cellar Head, past the inlet of Cuidhsiadar and back towards Cealagbhal. Back to where it had started the previous night.

Another shieling hut, looking into the rising sun. Far below, the valley ambled down to the sea. Even further away the faint outlines of houses marched along the southern horizon. Wooden posts marked the way there, but the trail would remain empty that morning. The padlock on the hut's door was broken, not through rust but through force. The door itself was smashed in, and the hut's interior thrown around. No, it wasn't the result of strong winds. Dibidil's bothy had withstood far worse than what that year's gales had blown at it.

Darkness descended once more over the empty moors. Backlit by another display of the aurora, the Dibidil sheiling hut stood abandoned. The door was open, and creaked on the light night breeze. But nobody was around to hear it.

Some way south of Dibidil, a large expanse of sand glistened at the edge of the sea. Closed off to the south by a high promontory, the first beach stretched for over a mile. As customary in these parts, little rivers ran through the sands to their destination in the sea. Footprints padded through the sand, headed in a northerly direction, sometimes diverting towards the dunes, fringing the beach. Birds scurried along the tideline, which was inexorably moving up, in its eternal twice daily motion. From the little carpark at the northern end of the beach, a vehicle slowly climbed up the steep access road and made its way round the corner to the second beach. Smaller and adorned with tall stacks, sitting oddly in the sand. The road went imperiously past the beach, round the corner to an ancient concrete structure - which was the end of the road. The track beyond it came to an end at a small bridge. Wooden posts marked the way onward north.

The low midday sun carried no warmth as it shone in the back of the lone walker. He only made slow progress through the tortured moorland landscape. Tough heather on the tops of low ridges, with spaghnum moss shrouding treacherous bogs only a few feet ahead and below. Deviations from the route were frequently necessary past the high cliffs of Dun Othail, and it took him a while before reaching the lip of the valley of Dibidil. Either go down more than three hundred feet to the valley bottom - and the same 300 feet back up to the bothy; or another deviation inland. The up and down route it was going to be. Upon reaching the bank of the little stream at the bottom, the walker took a break. Something caught his eye that glistened in the stream.

Something was wrong. The door creaked on its hinges, in the morning breeze. A trail of debris led from the door down to the valley bottom at Dibidil, the first item being a mobile phone left in the river. Beyond the river mouth, out at sea, a small craft could be seen, making its way north, towards Cellar Head and Cealagbhal. The walker picked up the mobile, which was dead. He quickly climbed up to the bothy, where a scene of horror awaited him.

No mobile phone signal. The walker could have retraced his steps south, but instead proceeded north, through the tortured landscape of the Maoim valley, with the white outline of Filiscleitir in the distance. Although caution was needed amidst the tall hummocks, runnels and ridges of the peatbanks, the walker fairly flew in a northerly direction. He finally caught his breath upon emerging into the benign grassy plain around Filiscleitir. Still no signal. The old chapel smiled in the afternoon sunshine, but that was a false reassurance. Upon entering through its ruined portal, another scene of horror met the walker's eyes, albeit different to the one he had encountered at Dibidil. Five miles to civilisation. Two hours on foot.

Darkness was falling as the bus negotiated the narrow road. Houses disappeared into the dusk which crept west across the nearby sea. As the driver came to the end of the route, he had to turn his bus around at a junction. Ahead, the road carried on for a few hundred yards, before disappearing into the moorland beyond. Just as the bus was about to set off, a man on foot approached from the moorland track, waving frantically. "Call the police", he panted at the driver as he boarded the vehicle. "Call 999. I don't know what's been going on between here and Tolsta, but they need to come down at once.” The driver had to proceed some distance in a northerly direction before his mobile got a signal. "Police are already in the area", he told his passenger. He pointed to his right, where blue flashing lights could be seen at Cealagbhal. One light sped south, then turned into the road where the bus was waiting.

Quietly, the waves flopped onto the beach, then ran out into the sand. Stars hung in the sky to the east, obscured as they were to the west by the bluff overlooking the sand and sea. A small boat lay tied up at the entrance to the harbour, giving anything but a restful appearance. The scene was illuminated by a flurry of flashing blue lights, which strobed the few houses nearby. Quite unusual. One of the local wags joked that the last time he had seen a flashing blue light at Cealagbhal was when someone had taken a guga that wasn't in their allocation.

What the walker had taken hours only took the helicopter a few minutes. The familiar shape of the red and white Coastguard chopper hugged the northeastern coastline of Lewis, leaving Tolsta behind. The cabin at Dibidil, the ruins at Filiscleitir and the cabins at Cuidhsiadar were all in view within moments. The craft touched down at Filiscleitir. Across the stream, beyond the bridge, a number of four-wheel drive vehicles were waiting. "The decoy in Port worked beautifully", the incident commander smirked. "They were fooled into a false sense of security, thinking they could complete their dirty work here". He gestured towards the remains of the chapel. "Good thing that eye witness got in touch with us when he did. We thought they were at Dibidil, but in fact, it was here, at Filiscleitir, that...". He broke off the sentence and his face clouded over. Several packets had been carried from behind the walls of the chapel. They had been identified as contraband, illicit drugs, shipped in a few nights before. The last packet did not match the others. The commander turned to the pilot, his face a picture of horror. "Take us to Dibidil", he said curtly. "Another lot could be over there".

The rotorblades of the helicopter slowly stopped turning as the pilot was sure his craft wasn't going to sink into a bog. The incident commander jumped out and walked the short distance to the old shieling hut, above the deep cleft at Dibidil. "Can somebody explain, please", he said, exasperated and angry. "Why would anybody want to do something like that??" He pointed into the hut. Piled up inside were what looked like bicycle saddles. Pungent. Fishy. Oily. All had been cut open, with bags of white powder visible inside. The smell was overwhelming, nauseating. "What a waste of good guga".

November story - #18

The rotorblades of the helicopter slowly stopped turning as the pilot was sure his craft wasn't going to sink into a bog. The incident commander jumped out and walked the short distance to the old shieling hut, above the deep cleft at Dibidil. "Can somebody explain, please", he said, exasperated and angry. "Why would anybody want to do something like that??" He pointed into the hut. Piled up inside were what looked like bicycle saddles. Pungent. Fishy. Oily. All had been cut open, with bags of white powder visible inside. The smell was overwhelming, nauseating. "What a waste of good guga".

Were you there?

Were you there
walking with us
down the forest path
as the wind sighed

Transporting us
north to where pines
sigh in the seabreeze
on the island of memories

Were you there
as I opened old files
bringing back memories
from yesteryear

Were you there
as we passed by
your final resting place
in the clearing

No, that's not where you are
just the marker
for others to remind them
of you

You're always there
because you're part of me
in spirit, not to be seen anymore
reminding me of what once was

You'll always be there
with me forever
never to leave me
for all time

November story - #17

What the walker had taken hours only took the helicopter a few minutes. The familiar shape of the red and white Coastguard chopper hugged the northeastern coastline of Lewis, leaving Tolsta behind. The cabin at Dibidil, the ruins at Filiscleitir and the cabins at Cuidhsiadar were all in view within moments. The craft touched down at Filiscleitir. Across the stream, beyond the bridge, a number of four-wheel drive vehicles were waiting. "The decoy in Port worked beautifully", the incident commander smirked. "They were fooled into a false sense of security, thinking they could complete their dirty work here". He gestured towards the remains of the chapel. "Good thing that eye witness got in touch with us when he did. We thought they were at Dibidil, but in fact, it was here, at Filiscleitir, that...". He broke off the sentence and his face clouded over. Several packets had been carried from behind the walls of the chapel. They had been identified as contraband, illicit drugs, shipped in a few nights before. The last packet did not match the others. The commander turned to the pilot, his face a picture of horror. "Take us to Dibidil", he said curtly. "Another lot could be over there".

Winter's battle

The towers move
fast along
on winds
far above

The branches sway
offering shelter
from the highest winds
far above

The land of trees
is ruffled by the breezes
from far away
beyond this vastest sea

The yellow stalks
of last year's grass
bare branches up aloft
bear testimony

A warning, that this is
a false spring
sprung to catch out
the unwary

Cold far away
is straining to move south
the ancient rocks
far north

Its battle fought afar
is lashing the ancient rocks
at the edge
of this vastest sea

As bare branches sway
in the land of trees
reminding us
It's yet winter

Solstice 2015

The sun approaches
its turning point
the nadir for the north
the zenith for the south

Capricorn stands ready
its horns lowered
to turn the sun around
for the north

The south wind blows
A teaser or a taunt
of summer
yet far away in time

The trees around me sigh
resigned to long weeks
of winter
still ahead

Do not be fooled
by this phoney spring
one lash it will take
of the jetstream's tail

and snow will whirl
wreaking its soft revenge
on the unwary caught out
by this unseemly warmth

In the land of trees

In the land of trees
Where wind is lost
among black branches
and evergreen hulks

In the land of trees
Where memories sigh
among the paths
as yet untrodden

In the land of trees
where quiet streams
soundlessly flow
carrying dreams

In the land of trees
where the roar
is not that of the sea
or of the wind

In the land of trees
which stands at my roots
as I look down the valley
to the unseen sea

Year's end journey

From the Atlantic
I shall once more
wing my way east
to the land of trees

From the open skies
by the Atlantic fringe
to the ancient woods
near a long, distant river

As the year closes
and the solstice passes
a new year will open
with new vistas to admire

When the days
once more lengthen
I shall once more
wing my way west

The pale blue
the dark browns
of the Hebrides
will await my return

November story - #16

Quietly, the waves flopped onto the beach, then ran out into the sand. Stars hung in the sky to the east, obscured as they were to the west by the bluff overlooking the sand and sea. A small boat lay tied up at the entrance to the harbour, giving anything but a restful appearance. The scene was illuminated by a flurry of flashing blue lights, which strobed the few houses nearby. Quite unusual. One of the local wags joked that the last time he had seen a flashing blue light at Cealagbhal was when someone had taken a guga that wasn't in their allocation.

November story - #15

Darkness was falling as the bus negotiated the narrow road. Houses disappeared into the dusk which crept west across the nearby sea. As the driver came to the end of the route, he had to turn his bus around at a junction. Ahead, the road carried on for a few hundred yards, before disappearing into the moorland beyond. Just as the bus was about to set off, a man on foot approached from the moorland track, waving frantically. "Call the police", he panted at the driver as he boarded the vehicle. "Call 999. I don't know what's been going on between here and Tolsta, but there are people hurt in the bothies". The driver had to proceed some distance in a northerly direction before his mobile got a signal. "Police are already in the area", he told his passenger. He pointed to his right, where blue flashing lights could be seen at Cealagbhal. One light sped south, then turned into the road where the bus was waiting.

November story - #14

No mobile phone signal. The walker could have retraced his steps south, but instead proceeded north, through the tortured landscape of the Maoim valley, with the white outline of Filiscleitir in the distance. Tortured were his thoughts, frustrated by his inability to summon help. Although caution was needed amidst the tall hummocks, runnels and ridges of the peatbanks, the walker fairly flew in a northerly direction. He finally caught his breath upon emerging into the benign grassy plain around Filiscleitir. Still no signal. The old chapel smiled in the afternoon sunshine, but that was a false reassurance. Upon entering through its ruined portal, another scene of horror met the walker's eyes, albeit different to the one he had encountered at Dibidil. Five miles to civilisation. Two hours on foot.

November story - #13

Something was wrong. The door creaked on its hinges, in the morning breeze. A trail of debris led from the door down to the valley bottom at Dibidil, the first item being a mobile phone left in the river. The moaning noise was not the sound of the creaking door, but of distress, inside the bothy. Beyond the river mouth, out at sea, a small craft could be seen, making its way north, towards Cellar Head and Cealagbhal. The walker picked up the mobile, which was dead. He quickly climbed up to the bothy, where a scene of horror awaited him.

Looming solstice

Another solstice looms
as the sun sinks south
on the home straight
of its winter lap

A flake of snow
a grain of hail
first warnings
of what is to come

The leaves are shed
The branches bare
The buds slumber
for distant spring

The winds may howl
The rain can drive
The hail will clatter
and the snow flakes whirl

The promise is there
when the sun heads north
a new year beckons
and a new beginning

November story - #12

The low midday sun carried no warmth as it shone in the back of the lone walker. He only made slow progress through the tortured moorland landscape. Tough heather on the tops of low ridges, with spaghnum moss shrouding treacherous bogs only a few feet ahead and below. Deviations from the route were frequently necessary past the high cliffs of Dun Othail, and it took him a while before reaching the lip of the valley of Dibidil. Either go down more than three hundred feet to the valley bottom - and the same 300 feet back up to the bothy; or another deviation inland. The up and down route it was going to be. Upon reaching the bank of the little stream at the bottom, the walker took a break. Something caught his eye that glistened in the stream.

November story - #11

Some way south of Dibidil, a large expanse of sand glistened at the edge of the sea. Closed off to the south by a high promontory, the first beach stretched for over a mile. As customary in these parts, little rivers ran through the sands to their destination in the sea. Footprints padded through the sand, headed in a northerly direction, sometimes diverting towards the dunes, fringing the beach. Birds scurried along the tideline, which was inexorably moving up, in its eternal twice daily motion. From the little carpark at the northern end of the beach, a vehicle slowly climbed up the steep access road and made its way round the corner to the second beach. Smaller and adorned with tall stacks, sitting oddly in the sand. The road went imperiously past the beach, round the corner to an ancient concrete structure - which was the end of the road. The track beyond it came to an end at a small bridge. Wooden posts marked the way onward north.

November story - #10

Darkness descended once more over the empty moors. Backlit by another display of the aurora, the Dibidil sheiling hut stood abandoned. The door was open, and creaked on the light night breeze. Another noise was audible, a moaning sound from within. But nobody was around to hear it.

November story #9

Another shieling hut, looking into the rising sun. Far below, the valley ambled down to the sea. Even further away the faint outlines of houses marched along the southern horizon. Wooden posts marked the way there, but the trail would remain empty that morning. The padlock on the hut's door was broken, not through rust but through force. The door itself was smashed in, and the hut's interior thrown around. No, it wasn't the result of strong winds. Dibidil's bothy had withstood far worse than what that year's gales had blown at it.

November story #8

The wind sighed through the browned grasses of winter, now encrusted with a delicate selection of rime. The sun climbed over the eastern horizon, which showed a jagged outline of distant mountains. Slowly the icy gems melted into tiny drops of water, clinging on to the dead stems. The rigid surface of the moorland loch imperceptibly resumed its motion in the winter wind. Apart from the demure hues of brown, green, yellow and black, a garish blot of red and blue could be seen at the shore of the lake. Just some bits and pieces left behind from summertime. Out of place, though. The trail north towards Filiscleitir was a very rough affair, the traveller having to negotiate tall ridges of peat, and there was no shelter on the way. Who would want to leave their coat or whatever behind in such inhospitable terrain? A man slowly made his way south from Filiscleitir, the chapel walls now standing out white far behind him. Out at sea, a boat was making its way north, past Cellar Head, past the inlet of Cuidhsiadar and back towards Cealagbhal. Back to where it had started the previous night.

November story - #7

The pale blue of the Hebridean sky deepened as the sun angled towards the southwestern horizon. Its last rays touched the old chapel and the ruinous house on the cliff edge, before disappearing behind the uncaring hills. A chill wafted across from the nearby sea as darkness fell. Nothing moved. Not even the seabirds, which had hurried to their cliffside roosts. A small boat made its way south, past the high cliffs of Filiscleitir, after leaving the nearby shoreline at Cuidhsiadar. Those on board did not care about what they had left behind, and even less about what the consequences of their actions would be. A late walker crossed the bridge from Cuidhsiadar and gained the heights near the chapel. Perhaps a good place to spend the night. Soon, a tent appeared near the end of the track, and flames joyfully leapt up into the gathering night sky. Their shadows only just touched the walls of the chapel. They only served to obscure what had been left there.

November story - #6

Complete silence ruled, where many once congregated in summer. Paled charts adorned the walls, blackened kettles rested on rusted grates, and old photographes, slowly turning sepia through sheer old ages, hung above the fireplace. Many of the faces had gone from this world, now only living in others' memories. Cups stood on draining boards, where they had been left, one forgotten autumn ago. Their abandonment often confirmed by the state of the locks, holding the doors against the weather. Rusted shut, for good. The wind gently blew around the sheiling huts. Dozens would spend long forgotten summers there, fattening up their cattle for the harshness of winter. Merry voices echoed along the valley, games played and meals made. All gone with the winds of change. Six days they would tend their kyne and enjoy the open space of Cuidhsiadar. On the seventh day, their spiritual needs were tended to in the old chapel, high up on the clifftop, south of the sheilings. But that too now stood roofless, derelict and open to the mercies of the harsh Minch winds. The low sun cast shadows, but some moved. Filiscleitir had attracted attention, but attention whose intentions were diametrically opposed to the use of the chapel there.

Remembrance Sunday 2015

Seventeen monuments
stand in silence
to remember those
silenced for good

From the wilds of the sea
or the mud of Flanders
From the depths of oceans
Return they will no more

A century passes
as they have now all passed
in centuries hence
will they still be remembered?

From Ypres to Gallipoli
From Basra to Baghdad
At the Beasts of Holm
they rest, their sacrifice done

At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We will remember them
We will remember them

November story - #5

Beyond the sea in the east, the sun climbed over the horizon, flooding the empty moorland with colour. The colour was brown. The land was broken, broken by the hand of man. For many generations, the top layer had been stripped away for fuel, to heat the homes of the villages to the north. And still, many miles of untouched moorland awaited the generations to come. The last village had been left behind an hour before and the straight track continued south. Gently, the landscape changed as another valley merged in from the south and some habitation crept into view. Houses - except they were only half-sized. Scattered over a sward of green, along the line of a small stream that gabbled its way to the sea. The track ended abruptly at a stone bridge across the stream; a path climbed up the far side. Far out at sea, a small boat could be seen, making its way towards the small bay which welcomed the stream to the bosom of the sea. It had taken its time to cover the four miles from Cealagbhal.

November story - #4

Nobody stirred abroad along the village street. The streetlights were out, and only the moon provided illumination. Shadowy figures presently made their way past the darkened houses, following the gentle curve of the street. A large modern building marked the end of the built-up area, with a few lights showing a sign for a restaurant. In the near distance, the surf could be heard, making a dull thud as each wave rolled ashore. The village, at the top of a steep escarpment, slept through the sound, as it had done for centuries. A boat slowly made its way past the end of a pier, a search light briefly flashing to guide it to a mooring. The three figures made their way from the roadway onto the pier, taking care on the slippery slope. A particularly large wave thrashed ashore on the beach nearby. The boat turned round after taking its passengers ashore and headed out to sea. Cealagbhal slept.

November story - #3

In the darkness of the night, the beams of the headlights roved across the landscape. The road wound its way across the flat landscape, indiscernible, even in the faint light of the moon to the east. Buildings flashed by, and presently, a row of lights, indicating the next village loomed up ahead. The streetlights were switched off as it was well past midnight. Only outside lights in the houses provided some illumination. The vehicle stopped, and the engine was switched off. A door opened, and the driver stepped out, holding a torch. A stile appeared in its beam, and the man stepped up and sat on the top step. Darkness enveloped him, but sounds carry further when there is no light - perhaps because other senses become more acute when one is inactive. Nocturnal sounds of birds in the near distance, beyond the next field. A small bird reserve. Looking east, a few birds could be seen against the light of the moon, now rising clear of nearby houses. After a few minutes, the car drove off again, into the next village. The road signs at the junction reflected brightly in its headlights, pointing left to the end of the road - and right towards the main town, more than 25 miles away to the south. Silence fell again as the night started to grow old. Soon, dawn would break.

November story #2

The waning moon rose, casting an eerie light. The wind rose too, fragmenting the beam of reflections across the miles of sea as the water began to ripple. A hint of greater darkness on the eastern horizon intimated the presence of another landmass. Row upon row of fence posts could just be made out either side of the roadway, held together by straggling lengths of barbed wire. Shadows of white moved slowly, but unseen by human eyes. At the road junction, a smell of burning peats wafted from nearby houses. The lateness of the hour meant that few lights were on, just the security lights - although many in the northern townships would chuckle at the concept of such a thing being needed. A dog barked. A car's security system beeped, indicator lights flashed twice, then two doors banged shut. The engine started, the headlights went on. The vehicle moved ahead, away from the junction and followed the road as it curved left. From the darkness of the bus shelter, a figure stepped into the roadway.

November story #1


This November, I shall endeavour to write a story in thirty instalments. The format is inspired by National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), but I'm writing shorter daily segments.

In the pitch black of the night, only the stars provided light. Innumerable pinpricks of light, some faint, some bright, of all colours visible to the human eye. Some clumped together, others far apart. Below the pivotal point, around which they appeared to rotate, a curtain of green arose. Fading, brightening. Gradually changing hue, changing colour. Mesmerising. Outlined in black against the green of the aurora were two figures, entranced by the display which continued soundlessly. Far below them, at the bottom of the cliff where they were watching, the Atlantic surf broke against the ancient coastline. Jagged rocks peeked out from the sea, becoming submerged every few moments as another wave broke. The spray nearly reached the top of the cliff and the two watching took a step back, to stay safe. A faint light began to paint the eastern horizon grey, then white as the decrescent moon rose. As it cleared the horizon, a beam of reflections led across the water. The aurora began to fade from the north, leaving only a glow of green on the far horizon.

Late October

The clocks walk back
but time marches on
we may fool ourselves
with that one hour

The first hailstones
clattered their warning
of winter not far away
Samhainn is nigh

Summer has closed
autumn progresses
the witches' hour
will close October

As we remember
those gone on ahead
when November comes in
which Samhainn marks

The dark half-year
commences
as we anticipate
the festivities of light

Another solstice
the longest night
beckons
as 2015 closes

Generations

Austere black letters
on a dark grey stone
in a leaf covered lane
alongside others long gone

From where river
and sea meet
to the sandy soil
of the east

Where work went
you went
Commuting
did not yet exist

Hiding from the oppressor
who sought to take
what was not rightfully his
for five long years

Roads and bridges meet,
are part of the one system,
and in the river country
two met 60 years ago

We three resulted
as the generations march on
fading into decades
and beyond centuries

Austere black letters
on a dark grey stone
mark for remembrance
whom we won't forget

National Poetry Day



As clouds sweep by
painting the blue
that is the canvas
of the sky

Branches sway
leaving leaves to tremble
as they prepare
for their final fall

The sea is restless
its incessant motion
ruffling the waves
in the endless wind

Autumn is digging in
for the short haul
some two months more
and it's solstice time again

Hiort - 1

Decrescent
the moon shines
reemerged
from its occultation

Like a crescent
the sandy bay
lies circled
by tallest cliffs

Like a frond of lace
the surf laps ashore
None remain where
the Book opens at Exodus

Only the birds fly
the dark sheep roam
the military watch
far out there

Equinox 2015

As night and day
shake hands
this autumnal
equinox

The leaves tremble
as ocean winds
seek to tear them
off their tree

Long gone
are the light summer nights
long ahead
are the dark winter days

The starlings
in their murmurating millions
have flocked south
ahead of the stately goose

From the Pole
darkness
will now march
steadily south

Whether in golden sun
or screaming storms
autumn is here
as the year declines

Autumn falls

The barometer dips
a few millibars further
The sun dips
imperceptibly lower

A calmness descends
from the frenzy
and bustle
of summer

Clouds laze
at groundlevel
Or exceed the speedlimit
high high above

Leaves cutting
loose
from the trees
they once fed

Birds gather
anxiously
frittering
in huge flocks

The mercury
heads down
generally making for
zero

Night conquers day
the moon rises higher
The aurora swings
its green curtains north

Orion begins
his march
across
the freezing sky

Autumn falls
like the leaves that drop
Winter looms
in the morning dark

Equinox

Another eclipse
shines over southern ice
Another equinox
looms a week away

The wind rises
for an all night blow
The first of many
a winter's gale

Three hours down
morn and night
The day shorten
the night is now dark

The merry dancers
flick the northern sky
in place of the
midnight glim

As the mercury shivers
to the bottom of teens
As the wind buffets
irreverendly

Summer is leaving
It's been brief
Winter is looming
not long to go

Somme

Did you march
that summer's day
Did you sail
across the Channel

Were you among
those never
to have passed
beyond the lighthouse?

Did you answer
the call to duty
the irrefusable
appeal from the King

Was it the last time
you saw the hills
of your native island
sink behind the waves?

Did they find you,
were you among
the luckiest
of unlucky?

Were you not
one of those
lost in a field
now part of it

So many
left these shores
for another shore
never to return

The hundred years
passing slowly
the centenary
goes on

We remember them
Lost at sea or on land
lost in mind
We remember them

Autumn

Slowly the night draws in
to meet the day
at the going out
of summer

A coolness tending
towards the chilly
colours creeping
into the leaves

The frantic rush of summer
calming down towards
the limpid calm
of an early autumn day

The sun moves west
reflecting brightly
in motionless
water

Windows on the west
at equinox time
Windows on the east
a September morn

The last midge bites
the first autumn storm
looms in the near future
Autumn is here

Sanctuary

Silence
reigns
over the
darkening sea

The nunnery empty
on the distant isle
cowering
in the fast flowing channel

What is wind to us
becomes a storm
whispers
turn to shouts

The sanctuary
amidst old stone walls
stands strong
and will abide

Diverged

Our paths diverged
we did not meet again
Your face remains etched
on my memory

Dragged down
by an obscure affliction
that few have heard of
let alone us

Your kindness was
unwavering
even down the phoneline
that last time we spoke

Only once more
would you cross
the sea west
to watch the sun set

Where the owl flew
where you saw
for a final time
the gentle hills and green valleys

You are not gone
for as long as those
you knew and loved
remember

And even beyond that time
the hills and moors
the dunes and beaches
the forests and streams

They will remember you

Rainbow

Arcing high
at the moment of sunset
the sign of the covenant
rearing up east

Fractured
through refraction
echoed
in silent multitudes

Ablaze in the west
at the minute of sunset
dappled in gold
reds and amber

Clouds and raindrops
a canvas and backdrop
for endless permutations
of colours and hues

For only a few moments
until the rainbow fades
from zenith to horizon
taking its colours with it

For only a few moments
until the clouds fade
into the grey of dusk
and disappear into the night

Empire of Stone

In the Empire of Stone
A stone ribbon
threads through
heather-clad stone

In the Empire of Stone
A rivulet sings
a stoney song
on its never-ending cascade

In the Empire of Stone
a wreath of golden sand
wraps below the green sward
lining the ancient hills

In the Empire of Stone
hearts were broken
on unforgiving rock
where lives foundered

In the Empire of Stone
rocky inlets
lined by distant homesteads
on the eastern shore

In the Empire of Stone
where rocks roll
small and large
up and down the hills

In the Empire of Stone
rearing up to the sky
the tallest peaks
in these outer isles

Although clouds may lower
to shroud its distant beauty
Chi mi'n Tir
the Empire of Stone

Descending

Seaforth goes out
taking the daylight
into the night
out east

Slowly we descend
from the heights
of the equinox
into a tease of summer

The wind is off
for a holiday far away
The rain fills rivers
for the salmon to rise

A touch of warmth
reaches us from afar
as this unkind spring
finally yields to summer

As the nights lengthen
now that the days shorten
we can look forward again
to the northern lights

From the heights of summer
in the blaze of brightness
and the dazzle of colour
I can still say: Chi mi'n Geamhradh

Short story XXII

Slowly but inexorably the clouds filtered in from the west. The thin January wind sighed through the grass and bracken, now black, brown and yellow. The year was but a few days old, and the Hogmanay parties were only just beginning to fade from memory. The service bus rattled across the causeway, with only the driver on board. Each township had slipped by, with no-one interested in joining the service. Presently, the bus disappeared beyond the expanse of the inland loch. Grey clouds drifted in on the wind, as it began to bend the grass and ruffle the branches of whatever tree was around. Not many. Only the austere hills of the east reared up to stand out against the darkening sky. The little chapel stood lonely at the cross roads. The bus was now only a tiny white spec to the south, and was not noticed by the tanker lorry driver who turned north towards the causeway. Spanning the narrows between the two islands, only a narrow gap was left for the tide to flood and ebb.

Darkness fell as the wind rose further. The gale that was blowing in was not an unusual occurrence in these parts by any standards, and winter was the time for such weather. The last bus of the day slowed down as it became exposed to increasingly severe squalls, and the lashing rain made the drive a demanding experience. After passing the last turn-off before the causeway, the driver switched on his high beam and slowed to less than 25 mph. Heavy pulses of rain blew across his path, almost completely obscuring the roadway. For a moment, it appeared as if someone was trying to cross the road in front of the vehicle. Surely not? Nobody in their right mind would be out and about in weather like this. Were his eyes playing tricks? After a quarter of a mile, half way down the causeway, headlights appeared to come in the opposite direction - two cars in fact. Although their headlights were dazzling the bus driver, he never came across the vehicles. There was nothing there. Apart from lashing rain, howling winds, flying spray. And the odd wave splashing across the causeway. At the far end of the causeway, blue flashing lights appeared. “You’ll be the last one across tonight”, the policeman said. “Did anybody come from the opposite direction, say the last five minutes?” The policeman shook his head. “We’ve been here for a quarter of an hour, monitoring conditions. Nothing has gone north. Or south. You’re the only vehicle.” The blue flashing lights had been stationary when the driver saw them. The car headlights had appeared to be moving towards him, and they were white in colour.

The police car ventured onto the causeway, where driving conditions were now almost impossible. The flashing blue lights illuminated the water, breaking over the boulders lining the roadway. One wave overtopped the defenses and slammed into the vehicle. The officers were relieved to gain the opposite shore. When a lull occurred in the wind, they quickly retraced their route. No other vehicles were seen. The roadblock at the other end remained as it had been. In the distance, unseen through the flying foam and rain, two pairs of headlights slowly approached from the west, paralleling the shoreline. They did not reach the causeway. The district remained in complete and utter darkness, as it had been since the storm commenced, following a general power outage.

The night became frenzied. Even more so after the power went off, just after the storm began. The wind roared and howled, buffeted the windows to near breaking point. Spray hit the windows with the force of bullets, exacerbated by the pebbles that the waves were throwing up from the shore nearby. The noise was deafening, nerve-shredding, incessant. The house stood up to the onslaught. But nerves did not. Soon, two sets of headlights were seen moving away, parallel to the shoreline. Not, as was thought, to safety. But into worse peril than would have been encountered inside four walls.

Deceptively quiet, morning broke. Powerlines sagged where their poles had snapped off, sand covered roads near the shoreline. Banks of pebbles had shifted from beaches, and in places approached houses. One house stood empty, embedded in shingle from the beach, just down the road. The Atlantic thundered away on the western shores, the force of the storm gradually subsiding from the swell. The road across the causeway was reopened. None had crossed that night. Phonelines were buzzing, where they still operated, neighbours enquiring of each others' well-being. Aye, it had been a bad one. Very bad indeed. One phone went unanswered, although the line had stood up to the overnight storm. It finally rang out. Those that had been expected from across the causeway had not arrived.

The news struck like a bombshell. Damage is one thing, it's an inconvenience, it's costly. Cars, roofs, houses even, can be replaced. But people cannot. When two cars drove away from the onslaught of sea and wind, of spray and shingle, little did their occupants realise in the terror of the night that this was the worst action they could have taken. Many a time in the past had the South Ford taken those that had ill-advisedly attempted to cross between the islands. Another five were added to the toll that night. Where sands shifted, and tidal surges ebbed and flowed, three generations were lost.

This story is based on the true events of January 2005, and is dedicated to the memory of the deceased. Lionacuidhe and Uibhist a Deas still mourn.

The winds sweeps our islands

The wind sweeps our islands
from far away
to far away
The wind sweeps our islands

The flowers bloom
The leaves have sprung
The lambs grow fat
The wind sweeps our islands

A boat comes in
A flock of gulls follow
A possy of waves crest
The wind sweeps our islands

Unseen by eyes
the wind blows keenly
through the ruined abode
of those long gone

The wind sweeps our islands
The leaves rustle
on the rowan tree beside
the ruined abode

Those long gone
return in the wind
the incessant wind
The wind that sweeps our islands

Darkness comes
but never fully in June
blown away on
The wind that sweeps our islands

The wind sweeps our islands
from cold winter
through bitter spring
into promised summer
The wind sweeps our islands

The empty lands

This week's debate addressed the issue of the lands, left empty by the clearances. Should they be left empty, as a wilderness? Or used for new opportunities for development.

Like a finger
pointing
at the empty sky
a ruin in an empty land

Like a weeping
the rowan sighs
for those
who will never return

As years pass by
unseen
not uncounted
the memory remains

The laughs and tears
the rowan remembers
of those
who would return

The empty lands
a memorial, an opportunity
history’s blank page
will pass final judgment

Beltane

As darkness fades
into the evening star
winter recedes
at long long last

The fires dim
the ashes dull
the northern horizon
lights up at night

For seven years now
For me
A shadow
lies across this day

Now only a lone marker
remains in the trees
near the other castle
two seas away

Into the night of winter
sadness has fled
leaving behind
the sunlight of memories

As the spring sun
paints the landscape green
reflecting blue skies
on the rippling waters

We remember those
gone on ahead
whilst not forgetting their last wish
For us to go forward

Anniversary

56 years ago
two people joined forces
so that the three of us
could now be here

it is long ago now
since i sent that
now final
bouquet

it is even longer ago
since i saw
them together
for the last time

one now rests
among the trees
now budding
as spring flourishes

it is not the slab
that i remember by
nor the sunflooded
glade in the trees

it is the years
that i remember by
love and support
in sunflooded days

Gress cemetery

Years have passed
insouciant
by the sandy shore
in sheltered lee

Once more
the gate creaks shut
as more pass through
that come to remember

Names weathering
disappearing
under colourful lichen
or blast of sand

Once well known
respected, august
long since lapsed
into the oblivion of time

Passing as quickly
as those
racing by
on the nearby road

Only the sea
quietly lapping
below the beach
nearby

Only the sea
never changing
will remember
until the end of time

Eclipse

Swinging from west to east
across the face
of the equinoctial sun
the uncaring moon passed

Light dipped
warmth disappeared
winds sighed
for a brief two minutes

All gazed up
forgetting to watch
the spring tides
lapping at their feet

Long will we wait
for the next passage
across the face
of our near eternal sun

Winter and spring

Ceaseless
Careless
Boundless
Unimpeded

The wind blows
from the Arctic wastes
of distant Canada
intensely cold

Warmed across the
vastness of the Atlantic
battling the moist warmth
of tropical breezes

Another gale batters
the ancient stones
and towering fortresses
of the Hebridean coasts

Transient snowflakes and
hailstones clatter insouciant
on the paving stones
of our old town

Winter seems
ceaseless
merciless
endless

What do I spy
shyly opening
where I left them
in November

Little crocuses
daffodils
and perhaps
a tulip or two

The days have
imperceptibly
but inexorably
lengthened

The equinox
approaches rapidly
Only three more weeks
and day equals night

Only a few more weeks
before we hear
the weak calls
of the newborn lambs

Spring is moving north
with the sun
We'll see it
however late

A sunny day

Where
are
the clouds
today

What
is
that bright orb
in the sky

For the first time
in 2015
the clouds
have gone on holiday

They needed it
In our skies
day in
day out

The February sun
lit up our town
lit up our island
as if it was summer

Tomorrow
will be back
to normal
Cloud cover

Force eight
will scare
our ferries
to stay in port

Spring approaches

Slowly
the calendar
flips its pages
towards spring

The sun rises
across the southern skies
higher up
each day

Is it a little less cold
just this week?
Has the wind
taken a holiday?

The distant hills
shimmer white
across the miles
of sea

Winter is still
firmly in control
Don't be fooled
six weeks to go yet

Short story XXI

Based on a true story

The sea languidly lapped ashore, that summer’s day. Oh, it’s so long ago, it’s nearly out of living memory. Some are still alive that remember it, though. What more alluring for a young lad than to build something that he thinks may float. What more fun than to do it with other pals. How exciting to find it actually does float. The sun beat down, and the sea carried the raft on its broad bosom. Being innocent of the ways of the sea, the boys did not spot the effects of the outgoing tide. They were having a whale of a time pointing out to each other the houses of the village as they slowly drifted by. One lad waved at his own house, but nobody was about. At the last house, someone did spot the little group on the raft. Slowly, the tide carried the craft away, the houses in the village became indistinct and the temperature dropped. The excitement ebbed a little, as the buildings in the town, a mile or two away, appeared on the horizon, looking unfamiliar from this distance. The sun began to dip towards the western hills when the tide finally lost its push, leaving the raft bobbing well out to sea, well out of sight of the town - but not out of sight of a fisherman who was returning home from his day’s fishing. The boys waved, and the fisherman tacked to approach. Swallowing an imprecation, he called to his crew mates to take them aboard, and bring them home. “What on earth are you lot doing here”, the skipper growled. It meant nothing to the lads that they had drifted five miles down the coast. They were more concerned at the reaction from their mothers, more to the point, from their fathers... They soon found out. As I said, some are still alive today that remember it - their backsides in particular! It earned one of them his nickname. I have altered it, for now. Let’s call him An t-Iasgair. The fisherman.

Holocaust Memorial Day (II)

We remember
These few years ahead
Those who answered
a call of duty

When the guns fell silent
It was an Armistice
and even when peace was declared
the seeds for more wars were sown

We remember
in the day ahead
the millions lost
to the lunacy of discrimination

When the guns fell silent
in May and August forty-five
yet more seeds for strife
were sown, further away

The pistol shot at Sarajevo, 1914
echoed in Paris a few weeks ago
We may think we learned the lessons
Beware. We have not.

Arbeit macht frei


Arbeit macht frei
The iron letters
smile
over the gate into hell

Journey’s end
Now you’ll be free
Liberation imminent
Arbeit macht frei

Arbeit macht frei
A non-descript gate
through which the
cattle wagons sway

All stop
All change
Freedom from all
Arbeit macht frei

Arbeit macht frei
Free from your family
we’ll beat them away
Never need them again

Free you of all
that you ever held dear
possessions, people, dignity
Arbeit macht frei

Arbeit macht frei
Turn left or turn right
More freedoms ahead
Freedom from dirt

Altogether now
Shed your belongings
you’ll get them back later
Jede Laus muss heraus

Jede Laus muss heraus
All lice out the house
Close the door to be fumigated
Arbeit macht frei

Arbeit macht frei
Drag them out
Cart them away
Soon to be smoke

Freedoms beyond bounds
The ultimate freedom achieved
Freed from your life
Arbeit macht frei

Arbeit machte frei
It’s now only words
The acts long since stopped
Justification there never was

We’re all to blame
We all allowed this to happen
Remember remember
the Ninth of November

Do not cast blame
lest ye be blamed yourself
Dark the letters stand in warning
Arbeit macht nicht frei

Perspective

It's all perspective
political expediency
convenient blindness
and many hollow vessels

An old king dies
our flag sinks to half mast
his country exports something
erm, what was it, oh yes - - - oil

A despot dies
Oh he was a bad one
The PM hugged him close
out in that hot desert

A despot dies
Oh he was a tyrant
but he was OUR tyrant
until we strung him up

A dozen cartoonists died in Paris
The world leaders marched
upholding freedom of speech, their motto
Je suis - un charlatan

Thousands died in one African city
But its government doesn't want us to know
So nobody marches
saying I'm with Nigeria

Let's fuse those double standards
Let's ditch the self-serving interests
Let's practice what we preach
Let's be human to each other

Welcome to the Hebrides

Here is your new ferry
It will sail to any Scottish port
Apart from the one
You are booked to go

Sip your G&T
In amongst the bacon and egg
as the ship heaves in the Minch
and you do too in sympathy

Land at beautiful Glumag
An industrial wasteland
At the start of
your activity holiday

Walk into Stornoway
Five miles is all
Through the Castle Grounds
in the dark

No buses go to Arnish
It's a single-track road
Used by lorries
and the lighthouse board

Behold the berth
where no ferry
known to man
can dock

Your destination's now in sight
will your landlady let you in at 3 am?
Welcome to the Hebrides
courtesy Calmac's Loch Seaforth.

Short story XX

Slowly, the lady strolled through the tall grasses. To the west, the sun was setting in a dazzling display of colours. The wind howled in from the sea nearby, occasionally carrying a speck of foam. Finally, just as the last rim of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, she reached the top of the dunes. A crescent-shaped beach lay below, pounded by ocean waves. Her hair streamed behind her on the gale. To her, the wind carried more than just the icy cold of a winter storm. It carried solace. Forgetfulness.

The lady slowly walked down the narrow road to her house, the drains on either side nearly flooding after the heavy rain. The crescent beach could be seen some distance away to the north, fringed by the frenzied surf of a winter storm. She stopped by the gate to her cottage. The memories blown away by the wind were awakened again in the relative calm of the valley. The lady lifted her head, and for a moment she was transported back in time. A car pulled up in the turning point, and a friend hopped out. "Hey, how are you today?" The memories fled back into the shadows.

At the time of the previous solstice, the lady had been the happiest person on the planet. It was the zenith of her life, as it had been the zenith of the year. Light never went away, always lingering on the northern horizon at night, quickly returning after a few hours of near darkness. But this was now the winter solstice, and darkness was never far away, even in the middle of the day. Particularly on a stormy day like today, with low cloud scudding overhead, with frequent harsh showers. Hail clattering down as it did, where elsewhere snow would have whirled. It was the nadir of the year; and the nadir of her life. In the summer, things could only get better, she thought. "Come with me, " the friend said, after being offered a cup of tea. "You'll be on your own, and mulling things over." The lady did not take much persuading, and a few minutes later, the two were motoring down the single-track road into town. "When did the stonemasons say the tombstone would be installed?" the friend asked.

Rain streamed down the window, with the wind howling outside. No ferry today - the boat was tied up alongside on the far end of the street. Nobody stirred abroad in that first gale of the autumn. He had just made it on the ferry the night before. As promised. Neither of them paid much attention to the conditions outside. Many, many weeks had to pass before they could meet again. He worked abroad, on the far side of the world, and could only come home once or twice in the year. Today was one of those days. Although as yet unaware, the lady received a present from him. Not one you unwrap in a few seconds. But it was one she had been hoping for, each time he came to visit. And now it was going to happen. In nine months' time.

As autumn deepened and darkened, the nature of the present became known to the lady. Not always pleasant, but some times, the harder roads lead to greater rewards in the end. By the time Christmas lights started to twinkle in the almost day-long twilight, the immediate effects had begun to wear off, and she began to prepare to receive the rewards. Still quite some way off, though, even when the calendars changed onto a new year. Those around her began to perceive the change in demeanour, even though nothing was readily apparent. Yet. Even when a severe storm blew tiles off the roof, ripped overhead cables from their insulators and spat spume and seaweed from the sea onto the village streets, her glow never ceased.

The lady looked at the little face, which had just come into the world. The pains of labour but a distant memory, she smiled at her new son. The midwife and doctor had both left the cottage but minutes earlier, that warm June afternoon. What a present to receive, indeed. And to top the surprise, its giver unexpectedly walked in the door. What a timing, through sheer coincidence. "I've got a new job", he said. "But this is so precious", and for a few moments he got acquainted with his new son. "Next week, I'm starting in the North Sea. I'll be able to come home every fortnight". Emotions gripped the couple as the prospect of a better family life shone brightly before them. Overhead came the sound of the Coastguard helicopter, clattering its way across the islands.

Another helicopter down in the North Sea. The news sent chills up and down the north of Scotland. Who would want to fly in one those things anymore? Who would trust the operators to put safety before profits? So many accidents, and nothing seeming to be done about it. Change the operator, change the choppers, use boats. But all that it did nothing to bring back those lost in the chilly waters of the German Ocean.

A heartrending wail emanated from the cottage near the ferry. The giver of presents was also lost in that crash.

Sobbing disconsolately, the lady wandered through the house, and finally found the cot with her baby son in it. Seeing his precious face appeared to calm her down, or at least help to focus her mind on something else for a few moments. Enough to compose herself to pick up the phone and share the dreadful news. Preparations were set in motion, and after a couple of days, the mournful procession wound its way down to the cemetery by the sands. Shivering from barely contained emotion, the lady stood through the ritual, not being able to look on as the coffin was lowered down. Her friend helped her away from the sad place. The lady staggered in the direction of the crescent shaped beach nearby, her friend in close attendance. "Come", the friend said calmly, with feigned control. "There is one who needs your attention more now. He would have wanted you to do that. Not stay here, you can't do anything here anymore." The gulls wheeled overhead on the summer breeze. "Come" and the lady allowed herself to be accompanied to the car.

The seasons wheeled past, almost unnoticed. From the dusky greys, dark greens and black browns of winter, to the bright blues and yellows of summer. The lambs heralding spring, from the vestiges of snow. The leaves fluttering from sparse trees, blown off on autumnal gales. The lady’s years grew, as did her young son. Soon the time came for him to join others of his age, down at the village school. Some came from far, off the little island buses. Others from the village itself. That first morning, all children sat in a circle, telling about themselves and their home. “My mother is Mary”, finally came Thomas’s turn. “My dad was called Jim. I never met him.” After a few seconds of gasps, the teacher signalled for silence. Thomas continued, unabashed. “He died in a helicopter accident”. The youngster manfully made his way through the big words, looking the teacher straight in the eye.