winter so dark and wet seals canter the mountainous waters sheep cowering before the wind ships torn apart by jagged stone
eyes peering through the salt stained windows whilst oats are being ground bubbling gruel over the fire oily wool being teased thick yarn being worked
a bedevilled figure appears on a doorstep a wreck survivor shivers in soaked skin they bring him in before a fire tweeds for the sea angel exhaustion and gruel draw him to sleep he will live and reap
the months pass by sustained by a meagre thrift Gaelic songs of old reviving those long gone stories so bold simple games to hold
hammer out the rock lower a body reanoint and cover with honed rock one more enters the island of Hirta lifted out of the hole by an ancestor and one not surviving a wreck transcend the drift wood hall eternal summer celebrations for all dancing and talking in a common spiel watching over their offspring of Kilda zeal
storms are abating and spring thrusts in wavering candles lights the verse crinkled hands are opened in praise closed eyes against the cold warms hearts now engaged thanks, and a prayer are given to Hirta spirts and creators alike
St Kilda an isolated island where a singular culture, language, a fight for survival and a place where ships were often wrecked depended on a strong faith. Also known as Hirta which here represents an ancestral plane.