Skye, July 2014
Calm waters, blue skies, still lochs,
And silence on the Quiraing.
On top of that very green world, it was hard to think
That there was a little man at the centre of it all,
Clutching for power – or, ‘Independence for Scotland’ he called it –
And holding Westminster’s feet to the fire.
But the Old Man of Storr is bigger than him,
And my loyalty still lies with him.
For, although the little man tells us that if we
We will not want to watch it burn,
Did that little man dare tell me I do not love this country,
As I sat next to those fairy pools, soaking my feet in their clear, crystal waters?
He seemed to believe that a flag is what represents a country.
A saltire. Blue and white.
But, from the top of Trotternish, in fact, all I could see was
Kilt Rock, Staffin, Islay and Kyle of Lochalsh.
This sight showed to me that patriotism has more meaning than one.
And now there are few fractured bones, but multiple broken families,
Friendships and bonds.
Loyalties have diverged and ties split into two;
The water in the little separate fairy pools no longer
A reflection of myself and where I sat,
But representative of a nation broken up