Postcard to my father
I have wanted to go back to that place for so long, to breathe the same air, to be where you were when that final event happened, by the loch those many years ago. Could you see the view as you left us? Was the surface water rippled in the breeze, or was it blue, flat and clear? Could you see the pebbles underneath, smooth and round? How green were the trees in that midsummer midday? Did you smell the warm grass, taste the minerals of earth, hear all the birds singing? Did the golden eagle soar above the white clouds? Did it fly away towards the distant Cairngorms? Did you think of me? Did you wish I was there?