Afterwards, my father walked to The Mare:
one of the far fields on the hill of Barcraig
crowned by a crescent of elder and chestnut.
He listened to the calls of curlew and peewit
remembered shafts of light and summer days
recognised the breeze as an endless breath
over rough acres fenced but never tamed:
large clumps of whin, thistles, rye grass
a heart of marsh reeds sloping to the burn.
He looked to Muirshiel's dark and brackened hills
round to the hard won grazing of the Law,
and further to the creep of city high rise.
He raised one strong arm across his body
then with the grace of a sower's wide arc
scattered his father to the wind.
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