My son & To Rhenigidale
by Graham Hardie
[ poetry - november 09 ]
My son
let it be known
that my son is not born
but carried
in the eyes of my lover
To Rhenigidale
To Rhenigidale,
where the trees are barren
and the red moon
cradles the soul of the salmon,
and those who lie by her waters
stitch and bind their nets,
to fish for light
and to find the eyes of the whale,
in the skies of night;
for she rides
where they sail,
on waves that crash on rough shores,
as their daughters,
on gentle knees and stony floors,
wash away
the oily smell of guts and gills;
while the Kirk bell
rings twice at dawn,
to herald the birth
of the holy land of Celt and Gael.
