AIRLIE KIRK

A little spot of tangled ground Set in the folding hill, From curlew-haunted braes the sound Of flitting voices shrill; The high October sky unrolled Above the plough-land’s crest, Rank mallows by the hearthstone cold With the field-mouse for guest; Gudeman, it is long since the fire went out And time that we went to rest. The naked rafters overhead Stand up like withered hands; I mind me when the roof-tree spread Where now the burdock stands. The threshold’s deep between the whin And fast in briers twined; Where little feet ran out and in The track is hard to find; Gudeman, it is long since we closed the door And left what it held behind. Down in the strath the kirk is set Upon the running burn; It’s many roads we’ve trod, and yet It’s here we must return. Old lights along the fields are laid, Old shadows lie as deep, But new eyes watch them as they fade Among the grazing sheep, And it’s time we went down to Airlie kirk And laid ourselves down to sleep.