but you have always been there
in one guise or another.
I trace the range of Strathfarrar
with my finger,
I draw the line of it in the air.
There is no sea, no sea here,
no Juno, Jupiter or Saturn
(the ships of my childhood).
At Moniack Mhor I lie with the bees,
their still bodies floating above me.
A horse rider clips in the lower valley,
curlews cry in my ear.
Hills fall behind hills,
behind hills. Moniack Mhor
is forever opening—
a gift of dry grass, crab clouds,
the green nest of furze slowly breaking apart.
Nightly the yellow almond buds
until I can taste them in the dark air.
- Marion McCready