I survey the map
to find I don’t really know this place,
I’m at a disadvantage.
A stranger in my own country
clinging to an everyday hillside
while the map twists in the wind’s grip,
throws unfamiliar names and words
into my face, my ignorance. I search
for bearings from my standpoint,
look out over Gàidhealtachd
as the clouds to the north lift up
showing the splendour of beinn and glean,
an t-Sruth and A’ Mhòine.
I think back to my childhood on Bute,
and once home finally learn bute means island,
and the village where we lived, Ardbeg,
a strip of land, close knit
between forest and kyles,
with grassy triangle we called the point,
derives from an aird bheag, the small promontory,
sitting suitably along the etched glacial caolas.
We live with more than we know, of course,
connected through names and language, not just history,
and although not free and new
as each generation imagines,
by treading old ways
the time and place of others can also be mine.
Lead image: Ardbeg by Seasaidh Cat