by Peter Maclaren
Beyond the lochan the strong colour
a low sun warming the alders -
so clear a light so late in the day.
And the fierce cry of the guillemot
arching beyond the headland,
No land till Lewis, back into the wind.
Sand kicks its grains into my face;
along the beach your tiny figure
turns again, footprints smoothed by the seeping sea.
My skin seems tougher now, calloused by living,
but the hand is there, the arm steady.
Before the light fades and the sound dies
leaving our figures cold in the air
climb with me through the dunes
for one last sweep of the great bay.