Darkness sweeps in from the east
The grasses dance in the cold wind
The wind sings in the wires
A late November gale
The sea has closed the ports
the ferry is not sailing today
will it tomorrow is not known
A late November gale
The radio is silent
of your voice
where it was heard
each Wednesday
We are awaiting your return
but the Atlantic is howling a lament
the sea is thundering a bass theme
on the deserted beaches of the west
When the winds drop down
we will bring you back
to your beloved
machair fields
We will bring you back
to the beaches of the west
where your life began
and where it ended
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