The House of Trees
4
Cill Chroisd
On the road to Elgol
That dances its way
In the dark and light
Of moving skies.
Breathing up and down
Sliding beside loch and ben.
Between the green toes
Of Beinn na Caillich –
(she, who, giving birth to the land,
Remains unconcerned
But ever watchful)
Beneath the raven’s wing,
Beneath its long, far cry;
Amongst the short grass,
Sheep-cropped and hummocked,
A blanket fit for sleep and dream,
They have placed the corners
Measuring the ordered landscape
Of the dead.
Here lies a MacLeod
Under the brown breast
Of Beinn na Caillich.
He has not angels by his head,
Nor angels by his feet,
But four eternal trees –
Green flames of yew –
To shade him from too much sun,
Too much starlight.
Four trees
Grown from his bones,
Fed by the exhalation
Of his long sigh in sleep
And promised rest.
They will be a shelter
From the four quarter’s winds
That winter howl along
The dark glen.
They will be a shelter
For the small birds
Singing him joyful
‘Til his Judgement.
A sure roof
Outlasting the crumbling of walls –
The green, sky-stretched,
Wind-hugged branches
To bear him back home.
Here he shall have peace.
Peace, but for the hooded crows.
Peace, but for the sheep
Tugging the small, green tumps.
Peace, but for the passing wanderer, curious.
They have built for him
A house of earth
For the earth of his body.
They have planted for him
A house of trees,
Seeded from his flesh,
Grown from his sinews
So that he can live for eternity
In holy wood.
They have built for him
A house of song-
The wind in the ivy,
The swan and the curlew-
For his soul to stretch out.
Who would not want a mountain
As a headstone?
Without cold in the bones,
A delight to watch for centuries.
Without a watery eye:
The storm winds, a delight.
And to drink the peace
Of the cloud-tangled rushes
In the evening and morning time,
Rippling with diver and otter.
Who would not melt to moorland?
Rich peat mixed with memories
Of the long-gone,
The onward patter of rain.
You aspire to epic proportions, classical in outreach, romantic in tone.
Wonderful writing, Simon; a house of trees, a house of song, so evocative, like a siren’s song to peaceful rest. Thank you.
tremendous Simon…find myself wishing to hear the words pronounced correctly (i’ve no inner-scottish-editor in my head)
Another great piece of writing, Simon.
Thank you all. I am happy with this part particularly. It is the kernel of the piece, probably the one most dabbled with and shaped by the long, pale fingers of the Sidhe, and largely composed on the Isle itself. I have been thinking about doing an audio recording of this poem to see how it sounds ( though I’m afraid I lack the round lilt of a Sorley Maclean or the honey of a Richard Burton). I’ve attempted inserting audio before but it didn’t work – probably because the file was too large…