When I took you home,

Though much as I remembered,

Scotland wasn’t what you thought.

It pursed its John Knox lips,

The town from where I’d fled,

And turned its back again.

 

Dusk fell fiercely

As we motored further north

And took the blood-soaked path

That is Glencoe.

Brooding, vengeful shadows

Seemed to chase us down the slopes;

Our voices stilled,

The needle rose as you, the best of drivers,

Let our anger out.

Besotted by the speed

A thirst for risk was on us,

Long resentment pushed us hard;

As shadows, air and memories rushed by,

We found a calm exalted place,

And knew it would be fine

To die like this together.

 

At Ballachulish safe and proud

We sat there in the car

And laughed into the darkness

As if a battle had been won,

Which in a way it had,

For we had glimpsed,

Through bloody-mindedness,

How perfect it would be

To live like this together.

Michael Stewart Cichla