5
The house at Luib
It is not the same,
There on the other side
Of Beinn na Caillich,
Beside the dark loch waters,
Still and brown.
Beside the heron-guarded
Loch of Ainort.
The houses of stone
Grey-walled,
Under shadows.
It is not silent,
The house at Luib.
For how can a thing
So merged with the world
Not be full
Of the whisperings of the world,
Its sighed breathings?
Not mice, though,
Amongst the rafters,
But birdsong.
Nothing but a thatch
Of cloud
And a drift of mist
Above
The moss-green
Tumbled walls.
No door
To open in welcome.
No scent of peat nor brose.
No fire at all,
Except the spark of sunrise
And embers at evening.
A house of trees,
Whip-thin and tall:
There together birch and rowan,
Maple and willow,
Carpeting the hearth,
Scattering green and gold
(more gold than this house
Ever saw before,
And of richer worth than metal:
Bestowing the soil,
Brightening the eye
On autumn paths).
Those who called this home
Shall be long, long gone.
Not sleeping near
Listening to the oystercatcher
On the shore,
The raven
On the slopes of Scalpay.
They will be lost
Across the seas.
Deserted by kindness,
Faces washed in salt,
Eyes empty of hope,
Hollowness growing
By the long mile.
And so it is
A house of trees,
A conversation
Of saplings.
This house empty of laughter,
Empty of singing.
No longer the home of men
Nor the smell of wood-smoke.
The bright trees growing,
Their root sinews sucking
The debris of memories:
Branches conversing together,
A chattering of leaves.
The old, sweet language
Sighing away
On the wind
Over the dark waters.
A soft calling
Of the lover to bed;
A hum, a song,
A tune for working;
By the fireside:
The telling of tales –
The day’s pouring,
Silver, gasping catch
Out on the wave.
So they have all become trees.
The memories growing to stories.
Casting seeds,
Changing with the seasons.
Our thoughts,
Boughs and branches.
Our intentions,
An agitation of leaves.
Our dreams,
Rooted hidden, out of sight
But deeper,
Deeper than we would even guess
Sustaining our place
Gripping rock:
The spinning world.
We would want for nothing
In our own place of belonging.
No distant yearning,
No sad lament
(except the lament of edges).
For always the living
Wraps the dead
As the ivy the stone
As the moss and lichen cling
’til they too become sky,
A dust
On the storm winds
Of autumn.
simonhlilly 
What language are those names in? Gaelic?
Yes, that’s right. Most placenames in the West Highlands and the Hebrides are Gaelic. Beinn na Caillich is one of the prominent mountains in the south of Skye. Actually, there are two mountains named the same, so that together they make the Caillich’s ( Goddess’s ) breasts. The name means : Mountain of the Goddess. All over the Highlands are mountains with Goddess connections, a remnant of the old days.
Just lovely, and peaceful, and I was there with the trees and the mountains