Dorothy Baird

The Fairy Lochs - Wester Ross

At the end of the Second World War, a plane crashed here carrying American soldiers home. There were no survivors.

Two adults, three children
trudge into hills
through juniper, heather, the clutch
and grasp of mud.

Bog cotton flickers like will-o’-the-wisps
and the fairy lochs watch us
with their soft eyes
where lilies are white prayers
hovering on the threshold
of two worlds.

We see it then: crumpled scraps
scattered on the slopes
like litter from death's pocket.

A propeller points to the sky
with names we read in silence:
a gravestone

where the dark water stirs
like settling memories
in the smirring rain.