Where the rocks of Ardnamurchan meet the rolling Gaelic Sea,
Where the reef-jawed whirlpools gnash their teeth and roar,
There’s a lass whose gaze is seaward, standing in the menhir’s lee
On fair Alba’s ever-westward-facing shore.
She is patient in the gloaming, through the tempests and the gales,
For the mists to lift and Barra to be seen,
For the beating of the galley-oars, the slapping of the sails,
And the sight of Somerled’s royal barquentine.
For her lover is a sailor in the service of the Laird
Whose demesne runs from St Kilda to Goat Fell;
And her memory’s a wishing-store of youthful days they shared,
Of the many yesteryears since their farewell.
On the days when sunshine strokes the shore and calm sea mirrors sky,
She may shade her eyes and touch her beating breast,
For the white wings of a fulmar turn to ship-sails in her eye,
And for one brief moment she is heaven-blessed.
She will wait and wait forever, for the lassie does not know
That the Island Chieftain’s galley’s gilded side
By Atlantic squalls was shattered, and in Cape Wrath’s undertow
Roll her lover's bones, in that relentless tide.
Where the cliffs of Ardnamurchan brave the Minches’ treachery
And the machair grasses whisper we have sinned,
Where the selkies’ siren voices and the wail of the banshee
Sound a distant, sullen pibroch in the wind,
There’s a grey-clad shade a-keening as she joins their ghostly song
With a counterpoint of sigh, and sob, and moan;
And the neebours pull their blankets close, awake the whole night long,
While Sionad Ni’Choinnich walks the cliffs alone.
Oh, the rubha of Ardnamurchan is a finger pointing west,
It’s a lonely place of rock, and sea, and cloud;
There I cross my heart and pray that lonely spirit finds her rest,
May the mist and dewfall be her gentle shroud.
By the fire, in Tobermory, we may drink a warming dram,
And toast all who live in Mull-of-Many-Trees,
But we leave the rubha to Sionad, to the wedder and the ram,
To the selkie-song and its forlorn reprise.
Oh, beware the heart, avoid the love for men who sail away
To the oil-rigs or the ocean fishing-ground;
For the years are short, the sunshine cheap, all wealth spent in a day,
And our death at last all pleasures will confound.
Gold trophy winner
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