Fairnilee
it was one of those days that promised enchantment, the
autumn colours deepened by the slight mist, tree trunks,
black and siver below the patchwork of crimson, rust,
orange and ochre...
the road curled through arches of autumn where drifts of
leaves fluttered as we passed. below us the Tweed wound its
loops where sheep grazed in the fields that lay around
Fairnilee.
the old house is sad, the roof fallen in, the windows
broken, and all the doors hang open. nothing but emptiness,
the little round towers silent with sorrow... a lone
buzzard floats, his cry sad in the silence over the Fairies
Field
that night as they rode out the sky had turned blood red in
the sunset, turning the Tweed to red, and gold, and brown,
echoed in these colours of today...it is quiet enough to
hear the horses pass, harness jingling, then fading quickly
into black silence beyond the silvered river.
the silence that lasted so many years…
kneeling on the soft damp moss that grew around the well, I
looked into the bright water, wondering if the spirits
would
ever set him free… the waters shivered… and cleared
to reveal his dark, sad and beautiful face,
for a fleeting moment our eyes met before the water
blackened…
in the forest the trees smelled sharply of pine,
and their roots tugged on my slippers as I stumbled,
in a small clearing I find a bush of white roses,
their scent lay sweet in the evening air.
I remember a bowl of these on my Mothers table,
and how they were reflected in the high polish of the wood
but home was gone now… and he too, is gone.
and so, on this enchanted day, painted with autumn,
I stand among tassled grasses, beside the Tweed...
watching reflections shift, shiver… and settle,
and there beyond the bend, I catch a glimpse of his
tattered tartan,
echoed in the water.