Me, Isle of Skye mountain goat child
Take me back there again
to that cusp of memory
‘twixt longing and love
a rare moment with you,
But , as always in silence
this time, walking together ,
we left the beach, because it is time to.
I hark back to her in head turns , my hair in my eyes
Drying soft tears.
We walk through the dunes and sea grasses ,
Heading for the single track road.
my swim suit is wet,
my skin is glowing.
I am wearing your thick arran sweater,
it hangs down to my knees like a dress .
Inside I feel proud.
I smell the wet, heavy wool,
woven with sea charms
feel its scratching, against my sun warmed skin .
We are walking on tarmac , some is melting in black pools of sticky goo.
The gulls whirl, whoop and dive
Like my spinning thoughts.
When I smell the honeyed scent of honeysuckle,
I am in childhood.
Vibrancy runs up my spine ,
vitality sings ,
in answer to that gentle summer wind.
I know enough to know that reaching for your hand is pointless
As is seeking arms of comfort, when in great loss and being rejected ,
is yet to come.
That blue print of ache, the map of my life,
is anchored here , in words and colours ,
the love of which you passed to me.
You carried your inner battles, home from the war
to imprint them on your children.
But you loved the poetry of my mothers face.
As the youngest at table,
my duty was to say grace,
Without mumbling .
And now ,
There is that silence,
in a knowing heart
that feels like the moment between waves
a long exhale of realisation
to fill the blue space,
around the stars.
A sound tone , that enters the cave of hush,
the cusp of anticipation.
The sun of memory is always warmer
and I still reach for your hand ;
though you are long gone now,
maybe this will change the way the sea dances
in the light of your smile.
(an experimentation in memory, which sends me postcard from my soul ~ in memory of my father )