The Weaver Of Grass

They took him here from another place
Where the Machair's sweet winds fold upon the face
Silent turmoill rolls across his eyes
A changing world, a troubled heart
The spirits freedom broken from the start
Youth forever lost in Europe's lies A young man's frame with an old man's hope
The painful journey, the turning of the rope
Bound forever tied to childhood's dreams
The lovat days now in the past
The mounted pride that was never meant to last
In a warring world where women sighed The wind blows cold on the Black Isle's fields
This silent world where he touches what he feels
Held forever still on the outer line
The darkened room, a night of sighs
The world defined by the regimented minds
Oh for the coloured nights of a Uist sky The hands still turn a desperate weave
To search the freedoms of the open field
Where nature's healing measure finds its way
By the hanging tree and the windblown fence
His darkened eyes turned inward in defence
Of a world that only he could ever dream The homeward road, the familiar shore
The pewits cry that will cry forever more
Down through a people's line he was sure had gone
And in this drift of a world unchanged
His weave is strengthened in the passing of his days
So late we came to see him in his pride