'We are all survivors,' we tell ourselves each spring
when we look out to see lambs suckling
their mothers, conscious for the first time in months
that seas are still and there's heat emerging from the sun,
that bird-song has chipped away the stone –
coloured skies stretching out all winter above the roofs of home.
But it does not feel like that this year.
Not when parents sit in vigil. Or when tears
blind those who grieve the loss of love and song.
Lambs still grow fat on ewe-milk, but our pleasure's gone,
if only for a short time, for we know that we must reach
out to those who stepped from school in Castlebay or on the beach
at Traigh Mhor or Tangusdale, only to see that wave
steal out of stillness, wash away all that they wished safe.