We lowered the coffin ourselves into
the grave and threw the cords on top.
Sea-wind, gentle for Lewis, stroked
my face. The poem sounded right
and I consigned John's body to
the raw, cleansing earth and commended
his spirit to the love of our
ancestors. Amen. Nor was that
pretentious. I could have accepted
his saying the same over me.
We did the filling-in ourselves
and left the old grave-keeping man
treading the turfs across the scar,
stooped, deliberate, at home
among the random headstones.
Crossing The Minch, and on that long
car journey south from Ullapool
I thought about the funeral.
I thought it was an honest one.
I think it was an honest one.
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