Donald Angus, Harris

by Kenneth Steven

Three days beyond his death
they carried him to Luskentyre,
the grave that lies against the sea;
the blue-green breathing of that tide.
The threads in him all left intact;        
the woven pattern of the eighty years
to make this place called home –
the love that brought the three strong sons
that spoke and sang his Gaelic;
the knowledge of the rise and fall of psalms,
this wave of God that underheld the hand,  
that carried high the quiet sureness of the heart.
All this they brought and buried there       
beside the vastness of the inblown sea,     
to sleep against the light of Luskentyre.