in memoriam sorley maclean

the day you crossed the deal bridge, between
unpredictable life and memory, there were tears
on the pale slopes of our faces, like quaichs of
brine, like mirrors through which could be seen
the living jewel words you placed in the minds
of your people, like seeds that, in the fertile
darknesses of memory, awaken roots, raise
shoots, until it bursts out, in uproar of motion,
that same birch wood, in which can be heard
every twig and leaf, declaiming your poems