Dithis

by John Bolland

Viewed from the pitching birlinn on an Cuan Sgith,
Eilean a' Cheò dissolves and Innse Gall
precipitates out of the winter squall,
grainy under Roineabhal.  But it is you
who travels from nostalgia towards a different shore:
though every ache and whimper, every blurring tear, caress,
bramble stain, skint knee, milk tooth, giggle,
mischief, kindness and reproach were real and will be real,
though entropy pays out the tow of time,
binds you to what’s lost, ensnares you in what will be lost
(for there’ll be losses yet).  McCrimmon sails
towards his dead sons’ future though already in their past
and Padraig’s future griefs are real and inconsolable
though not yet now – or merely overlooked. Ceol mor
as hair-shirt and as valediction.  St. Clement’s tower
at Roghadal.