Sutherland

Heading north, the scenery changes.
Heathery hills and mirror-bright lochs
Replace the gentler, greener ground to the south.
This is where I once lived as a child.
Often we would return here in summer,
Almost resuming the life we had on the hilltop.

Gone are those who once worked these hills.
Their crofts run to wrack and ruin,
Sheep grazing the fields they once tilled.
Now their descendants flourish in the New World.

I loved the tiny, remote village we stayed in:
The blood-ochre sunset, the fly fishing.
Walking on long white beaches like Oldshoremore,
Exploring the dark echoing mystery of Smoo Cave.
The island of sheep, with no crossing at high tide,
Was my favourite haunt, among the salty seaweed.

This land is a cold, forlorn ghost of what it was:
No more shall the clans rise, and reap the fields.
Now the wind scours the hills by Scourie
Looking for the customs, the life, that has gone.