Glen Gairn (For Elaine) Poem by Jacqui Thewless

i

Native loneliness -
thigh-deep in that bracken moor
under standoff skies -

the flight of a single bird, or a God -
an eagle - and me, a child.
Then, winter; the cold blizzard

catching me again, alone
on the Tor; a drift
in the midst of the white-out:

what is God meaning?
Spring at the long since crofts;
forsaken, forlorn

rainfall rivulets; my own
self hearing unexplained songs;
then, June, sheep-shearing -

the shepherd’s unforgettable
smile, his head tilted: ah weel...
- himself and the dog.


ii

Wynding down the stair,
my slippered feet on the pine
bare treads, to morning

breakfasts, where fire smoke
in the peaty-smelling room
mingles with syrup

floating the porridge;
scaling the brae at the back;
fetching birch-bundles:

it is the same lass
practising her soprano
vocals by the burn –

Lizz-y Lind-say.
It is my dad’s favourite.
I win a silver

medal for singing
this: the Lang prize, in the school;
Mr Patterson’s

nails clipping the keys
as he’s playing piano,
softly, tenderly...

iii

When I was grown up
I took my own child; the Dee
wide as her brown eyes

under the stone bridge.
She had no shoes; the pebbles
as smooth and rounded

as slippery toes.
In the cottage, gas lamp glows
and thin candles lit

the girl’s room, our room
under the same old apex.
After prayers at night,

the Skye Boat Song sung
over and over, she’d sleep
in the same high bed;

her days, not like ours;
our days not like the others’
who dwelt before us.