i m Gael Turnbull, poet, 1928-2004

They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary. Isaiah, 40 v 31

Today - so many Gaels; each from the same spring
of modesty, of graciousness, intelligence. Even now
he settles like a butterfly among us; a bright sun still
lighting him and the hills beyond, his final pathway.

There was always something of the conjurer about him:
busking the Royal Mile, top hatted; or minting meanings
from ordinary words; or sweeping us up in the absurd;
or paying each the compliment of complete attention.

Three images remain: a piper playing a lament, leading
the coffin to the graveside; a threat of morris dancers
from the faint tinkle of bells just as the hearse pulled away
and it was over. And the story of his childhood fidelity:

A journey with his little sister, but money for just one ticket,
and the young boy running, keeping up with the tram,
re-assuring her with his steady wave. That picture
imprinted lightly on our day, our journeying, this finality.