The Fairy Bridge of Dunvegan

The Fairy Bridge of Dunvegan

More than half a hundred,
you are no longer young.
Hard to play your harp
when your strings seem cold, rusted,
silver no longer but bronze,
too tightly, maybe, too loosely strung.

You still remember them,
the tunes of childhood,
played on faltering, irritating recorders,
shaken bell rings, thumped tambourine.
Then in your youth,
there was guitar, drums and bass,
when, it seems now, you were laughably green.
What now you are older?
You still love the old songs,
while you accept you wait to hear
the forgotten parish church organ
play the final fugue.

The Fairy Bridge of Dunvegan
on far Isle of Skye,
your wish was to cross,
etched itself in your mind unbidden,
but not the one in this world,
structured for the convenience of cars,
but the one its name conjures,
that exists in the mist of silent vision,
in a far off pipe tune, a lament for a loss,
that allows you to pass through the glass,
to float in a boat on a lake of heron and swan,
in light that is wonder till all else is gone.

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