Two planks across the rowing boat
A motor car perched precariously
The ferryman rows ponderously
Across the narrow strait with fast flowing water
To work she came, the new nurse for Bernera
Only just on the island an urgent call came
To the house by little Tobson
A young lad lay drowned, claimed by the sea
To no avail did she work to bring him to life
The spirit of life was long gone
A sadness enveloped that house
Close by the double beach
Four times they have tried now
Ever foiled by the tidal currents
Will it work this time round
To drive the bridge’s pillars into the seabed?
The bridge is in place, its engineer proud
The ferryman’s out of a job
Cross the narrows to the Tir Mor
With dry feet and no fear of water
The bridge engineer took the nurse as his wife
And took her far far away
Over the bridge to Tir Mor
And beyond the shores of this land
Never would she reside there again
However much she yearned to one day
Cast her gaze over the wild beach at Bosta
And once more call it home
From the Southern Cross to North Star
Was her last journey beyond this life
The road ended at Bosta
Where now her spirit remains
In memory of Peggy Macleod, 1927-1989
Tir Mor is the local name for the area of “mainland” Lewis south of the Bernera Bridge, containing the villages of Lundale, Crulivig and Earshader.
Showing posts with label bosta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bosta. Show all posts
Bosta
Deep blue seas hurrying through
a narrow channel to the next island
None left there as permanent residents
Only the markers to those gone before
The village in the sand was stirred
by violent winds from the present age
what did it look like, they wanted to know
only guesswork
Yielding an edifice that's stood
the test of time, but failed the one of modernity
Above the sands and past the river
None now live there, others come admiring
A dark storm looms from the northwest
The islands fade in the squalls of winter
Reappearing in blinding clearances
in a white wreath of flying foam
From small to larger the people were moved
To the township southeast, round the minister's manse
Further southeast more ancient a temple
Not to the sun but for observing the moon
Long gone have the people who erected the stones
Long gone are those driven away
At the whim of a minion, not caring
but for his master's pocket
Only the beach now remains
With the islands beyond
And the memory of those gone before
At Bosta
a narrow channel to the next island
None left there as permanent residents
Only the markers to those gone before
The village in the sand was stirred
by violent winds from the present age
what did it look like, they wanted to know
only guesswork
Yielding an edifice that's stood
the test of time, but failed the one of modernity
Above the sands and past the river
None now live there, others come admiring
A dark storm looms from the northwest
The islands fade in the squalls of winter
Reappearing in blinding clearances
in a white wreath of flying foam
From small to larger the people were moved
To the township southeast, round the minister's manse
Further southeast more ancient a temple
Not to the sun but for observing the moon
Long gone have the people who erected the stones
Long gone are those driven away
At the whim of a minion, not caring
but for his master's pocket
Only the beach now remains
With the islands beyond
And the memory of those gone before
At Bosta
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