Tied
With most of the creelers and the rest
Of all the local boys out
Of commission forever, it seems, tied
Up for good like the swings in the playground
On the Sabbath or hauled up above
The high-water line, following the guga
To Sulaisgeir and Rona or away deep-sea
For the season, the gulls go back inland
Like the herring-girls home from the east coast
For a visit, or Fleetwood or Lowestoft or Yarmouth,
Past the Shiants and beacon-lights, unmanned,
The seals on the rocks in shoals, past
The Beasts of Holm and Tiumpan Head,
Over the empty crofts, trout lochs, deer moors,
Shielings, standing stones, brochs and bracken
In the no-man’s land in between
The West Side and Ness, to the last
Stream and strand and the Butt of Lewis
And look for their lot, all crying out,
Is it, Iolaire! Iolaire!
Balaich an Iasgaich!
Dachaigh nan Seòid!
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