Walking in the Hebrides
It would be heaven, if I could but see
My Mary walking in the Hebrides;
And then my Saviour with twelve men of Mull;
Between the mountains and the seas a lull
Settled the winds and mists; old voices still.
She'd sing for him, and He would do his will.
"Fishers of men, stretch out your hands across
The waters of Benbecula and Ross".
Slowly my eye ascends through realms of thought;
Past fancy, past imagination brought
At last beside some lost, enchanted stream
Where these are one: to long, to fear, to dream.
Then, it is so; my Saviour walks the loch,
Preaching to men of Skye and Badenoch.
And many lands beyond.
Who are these gold-haired children at his side?
Are they of Keppoch; the MacDonald's pride,
Or Gordons or Clan Ranalds - none can tell,
Nor know in which long ancient feud they fell.
Below a pace Lachlan of Killnochpyle
Embraced the red-haired Callum of Argyle.
Love here there was - a strange red-tinted flower,
Rare as a tulip in a cattle byre.
Fishers of men, stretch our your hands across
The waters of Benbecula and Ross.
But quiet beyond Portree the darkness came,
Chasing the blind, the palsied and the lame.
It could not last - not even in a dream;
Not even by that still, enchanted stream.
Soon came a cry - a wild and fiery cross
Stretched out its shadow and its gaunt strength tossed
Far, far beyond Benbecula and Ross.
Now in the night old Gaelic voices sing
Sometimes of Heaven and the church bells ring.
Strange spirits dance around the lonely dead,
Old myths with scented hair and iron head
Call out their tunes.
Tis then the hearts of men of holy will
Present their gifts of pain and suffering still
To Him who came not to destroy but to fulfil.
And for a little longer I can see
My Mary walking in the Hebrides.
ewpomacpherson@googlemail.com
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Ewan
MacPherson
Wells
Somerset UK
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