In memory of Eilidh Macleod
A doll’s house aeroplane brought you home. It fell
like an osprey above the ocean’s painful lights.
You could not feel
tiny whirlpools in your ears
or the wind rocking your winged cradle
when wheels touched the coldness
of a hollow bay. The sky
was body mist in a school corridor:
they lifted you,
your spun sugar hair behind wood,
inside cloth, under bairns’ flowers.
Our sun watched from her steely thread. She cried,
traumatised – she had witnessed
what no star should ever see.
Gravity summoned the tears
onto Hebridean rocks,
where they formed indelible shadows, dark
as a night (built with music,
photographs, heart-eyed faces)
turned to smoke. To rubble.
If only the piper could have given you his breath.
Barely heavier than sea glass,
you were carried on shipwrecked hands
while he exhaled goodbye,
the sand beneath you whiter
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