Leaving Camustianavaig Poem by John Beaton

(from Portree Cemetary)

Today we leave the croft and you
and, though the rain-mist makes it vague,
we see your chosen gravesite view
ploughing the clouds—Ben Tianavaig.

We see its bracken patches spring
by dykes you built, where bogs of peat
lie spaded out for winter heat,
how sheep paths terrace slopes of ling,

and how the freshet gravitates
to where, as tykes, you fished the burns
and played by byres and butter-churns,
on Sundays ate from heirloom plates.

You left us that bespoken land
but cloud has claimed the graveyard's view—
the mighty plough is buried and
your offspring leave the croft to you.