She had come home,
with so much joy
the house could not contain her.
So we went out
onto the hillside.
A cold wind swept across the Skeabost
running its fingers through the heather.
She pointed to the road and said “walk”,
so we ran,
scattering the
sheep before us.
At the top of the hill
she put out her arms
and slowly began to dance
for the light and
the air.
She has not seen Rainman,
no one has told her how to think or feel,
this is the dance
of her soul.
As I watched I began to see
that as she danced with the wind
the wind danced
with her.
© John Burns, 2001. No part of this poem
may be reproduced in any form, including electronic formats or transmission,
without written permission from the author. All rights reserved.