An Iolair Mhòr (The Great Eagle) Poem by Andy Allan

‘Coh-bac, coh-bac, coh-bac, coh-bac.'
Startled grouse voice their alarm
on the high path up over Lag Buidhe.
Swooping down the hillside,
they brush the ragged slopes
awash with racing cloud-shadows.
Wind-built waves of heather sweep
across a tweed-green sea.

North beyond the Spey,
over forested hills and moors,
the distant lowlands of the Laich
lie under a blurred blue haze.
A dark speck spirals high in icy skies
as I rest my weary legs to watch and reminisce.
‘Iolair Mhòr your days of greatness have gone,
Your clan is small, the world has turned.'

Oidhreagain clings tightly to the ground,
its presence reminding me that even now
there are still things I can only name in Gaelic.
Rising, breathing deeply, I crest the shoulder,
raise my eyes to the great dark silhouette.
‘Oh Iolair Mhòr, our day is gone,
torn away with the tattered leaves of history.
Chaos laps at our feet, washing ever-higher,
drowning the memories.'

I shiver under passing clouds as
the distant eagle wheels to leave and
two heather-skimmers glide down into oblivion
repeating their timeless call;
‘Coh-bac, coh-bac, coh-bac, coh-bac.'