Last Breath in Sutherland

The sun bleeds away over the horizon, taking our lives with it. It goes west, leaving shades of red and gold across the heather that fade to black. Two days ago, I was a tenant on the Strath of Kildonan. The factor came, with a piece of paper in one hand and a burning torch in the other. I was used to the dignity of work, to providing for my family. All this is no more. The land is wanted for sheep, for their swirling fat bodies to take the place of generations who have lived and worked this land. I had heard of evictions elsewhere, of the burning of crofts and livelihoods and sometimes of people. There was an old woman burnt out, with her clothes smoking. Her only words were the Gaelic for ‘fire’, over and over, for the short time she lived afterwards.

     Now I am heading to the coast, with my wife and children. I try to keep our heads up during the day, talk cheerfully of food and work where we are going. It is not as if we have any choice. I see the ship waiting at the dock, heading for Canada. We move towards it, touched by the last rays of the sun. It turns a dark, angry red that slants over our heads. This is our last night here. The night our blood flows away.