The folded ruddy face under her felted hat
Stretched and soaked and squeezed into a seven hand-width
With the waulking song, keening Gaelic women
Who are the heart of this circle of Hebridean stones,
Stones carved with cycle symbols – a dog chasing its tail,
And a Mother cradling her Son in an oval niche.
Leaving, I wave and weep, wind driving water from my eyes
As the waves, water cycles, weave a tiny new thread
Into the looping skein of Canna’s history.
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