Hirta Croft House

Their voices echo still inside my walls,
I hear the cry of babes
the loud voices of men
calling from sea to shore
the mothers' softer murmurs
as they sit quietly knitting.

From my windows, I see the men climb the perilous crags
to harvest the fulmars*
first the adult birds, then the eggs
and lastly the fat tasty chicks;
I see the sheep grazing on the hills.

Through my stone, I hear the cattle lowing
people singing as they work
but then comes the loud factor man
to collect the rent
from our turf roofed storehouses
built stone upon stone, skilfully crafted
by ancient art.

Across the sea lies rocky Dun
tall cliffs rising prehistoric giants
thrown there sixty million years ago
by volcanic action.

Man first came here five thousand years ago
now all are gone, except those from the MOD
in their listening station
theirs is the only sign of human habitation,
all that remains of the others are crumbling croft houses
and scattered stones.

The fulmars and the sheep remain.

*a sea bird native to the area.

This poem was inspired by a postcard I bought in a Glasgow art Gallery.