Hirta Poem by Garry Stanton

For the lost people of St Kilda

Black eyes, staring.
Melancholic, not angry.
And the village street
On which you all sat,
It’s still there.

But where are you, dark
images of the
Old time?
Still here, like ashes
Landing in my hair?

In the air
There is
The poetry of ghosts,
In Gaelic
Softer than the rock.
Softer than the rock
In which you bide,
Always.

We try to remember you
But forgetting is all we can do
When time casts you aside,
Mere seconds in the Atlantic wind
In the scheme of things.

Forgetting is all we can do
When time casts you aside,
Fated to be forgotten...