At Cairnholy

Chambered cairn: third millennia B.C.

The Cairnholy sun
dyed the cold sky red,
dispensed with forests;
made sea echo stone.
For, in winter, Wigtown
deals elements; lead
us, like lapsed priests,
to its burial homes.

On a court of dead grass,
before a façade
of chiselled pillars,
we lit two sparklers
against the black mass
of night. As darkness bled
around our shelter,
we made a mark there

with a brief ritual
of laughter and light.
Two innocent fires
circle each other.
They spark off nuptuals –
like moths, each one light
to the other – till tired
dancing, they wither.

The ceremony
burns still; a small fire in my distant heart.
Though bones stand on bones,
our truest story
is told by frail wires
of ash, the colour
of Cairnholy stone.