Mod nan Eilean

The last chord drifts away
from the old school hall
soon all will go their
separate ways

Celebrations over
for achievements
and first place

The old language,
older than what I write in,
echoes from the halls
native or learnt

The sun shone down
as the ferries sailed
carrying the festival

The language remains
between sea and ocean
the culture continues
from lighthouse to lighthouse

I see the land
I see the winter
the last tourists have gone
from the isles of the west.

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