The Wind as it Blew

the wind as it blew was an ill wind
the near hills no longer gentle
rode hard against the sky

the sea as it ran in cross-currents
was a rip-tide off Bhatasgeir
drowning those who stayed

‘Ah, Dhòmhnaill, when will another son of yours be lost
parted from Aird Thunga and the flat rocks above the shore?’

that Dòmhnall slid beneath the squall
the storm kelpies hard upon him
the pèileagan dragging him down

the wind as it blew came from no direction
rattled the coarse sea-grass at the future
a king a golden throne a palace yet unbuilt

at day’s dawn a man with marram grass hair
Alasdair Ruadh stood alone in the shallows
as if he had a premonition of things

and knew the furious treachery of na fir ghorma
calling out rhymes to windswept sailors in a challenge
for two lines in answer to cheat the waves

‘Ah, Dhomhnaill Iain, it is not you who will count the cost
having been carried from your island home in a time before’

the blue men of the Minch still call out
over a hundred years of ocean and seaway
through weather and storm their riddles of the deep

with his thin hair flying like the sedges on the sand
today’s old man is no longer listening and stares back
a thousand miles with as many years already gone

he knows nothing of na fir ghorma and their rage
he believes himself risen above the mysteries of the past
untroubled by his forebears muttering in the wind

‘Ah, Dhòmhnaill Iain, you were already lost when you were born
hollowed out by time and distance and all that has now passed’

he has this reply to make, a rhyme to save himself

‘I am Domhnall Iain and I may yet be saved although my soul is torn 
for I will mend it like a ragged sail and come home safe at last’

but his thin and meagre lips cannot move to utter it

© BH, 2018

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Once again, the Donald reared in my fervid imagination. His antecedents in Lewis, in the tounship of Tong - which of them could have foreseen his ascension in the firmament of power?

Those who are there, family or otherwise, have the Gaelic politeness to demur and make no comment. I, on the other hand, being an East-Coaster and growing up a couple of dozen miles from Balmedie, scene of the golf business, I have no politeness whatsoever.

So, I'd been drawn to the Western Isles and the mythos of his beginnings. Long fascinated by the Blue Men of The Minch and the treacherous sound they inhabit between mainland Lewis and the Shiants.

I wondered if they too might have migrated westward, perhaps to the Gulf waters or the eastern seaboard of Florida, riding the waves in search of their lost native son, to bring him to the deep.

Ah, but could he answer their rhyme with his own? In the cold light of day I doubted he could.

GLOSSARY:
Aird Thunga - High Shore of Tong
Bhatasgeir - Vatisker (near Tong)
Dhòmhnaill / Domhnall - Donald
Domhnall Iain - Donald John (Trump's name in Gaelic)
na fir ghorma - the blue men (of the Minch) also known as Storm Kelpies
pèileagan (pronounced 'pay-ley-kan')  - porpoise  
Tunga - Tong (where Trump's folk came from)

Illustration - Bhatasgeir shore with pèileagan and wild trump hair