By D S Murray
‘We are all survivors,’ we tell ourselves each spring when we look out to see lambs suckling their mothers,
conscious for the first time in months that seas are still and there’s heat emerging from the sun,
that bird- song has chipped away the stone- coloured skies stretching out all winter above the roofs of home.
But it does not feel like that this year. Not when parents sit in vigil.
Or when tears blind those who grieve the loss of love and song.
Lambs still grow fat on ewemilk, but our pleasure’s gone,
if only for a short time, for we know that we must reach out to those who stepped from school in Castlebay or walked upon the beach at Traigh Mhor or Tangusdale,
only to see that wave break out of the stillness, wash away all that they wished safe.