I’ve been meaning to share the below poem (“I Know You’re
There” by Alexander Hamilton) for a while but haven’t found the time ’til now.
The poem was a finalist at the Tarbert Book Festival,
October passed (2018). I was quite taken by it, and by the preamble spoken by its author,
Alexander Hamilton, in which he described the ruins of nearby habitations at Leac
na Ban (Tayvallich, by Lochgilphead, Argyll), known locally as “the
Tumbledowns.” Alexander and his wife Polly are artists who have a seasonal gallery at Leac na Ban.
Alexander clarified for me that “Leac na Ban is first
recorded as a settlement in the middle ages, and there is evidence of pre-historic
activity, 'tho the local museum calls them 'anomalies'. Fourteen families are
recorded as living here in the rent rolls of 1786. The township is split by a
dry stone dyke that runs up the hill either side into the common grazings. One
side of the dyke became North Leac na Ban our side became South Leac na Ban,
which was the name as we bought it. We restored the original name as much as to
stop people asking where North LnB was, and because it seemed right. There are
a number of the original buildings still standing in a 'tumble down' condition.”
Working as I am on a number of short stories inspired by my own imaginings
of people and places passed from the West Bay area, I am in a way haunted by them.
The forest around here obscures the ruins of passed lives and livelihoods, but
when you do stumble across “tumbledowns” it’s hard not to address them, as
Alexander has.
“I know you’re there”
I know you’re there, I’ve seen you slipping past the
building. Are you aware of me? As a shade? Or am I a draught at your neck?
Your house is now my barn, my beasts rest in your bed.
You were gone; your hearth put to good use, still sheltering.
I can see where the courses change, a new pattern of stone.
Filling the windows, extending the walls, a shooch.
I’ve seen you in the mornings when I go to the sheep.
Careworn face, shabby heavy clothes, hard living etched in every line.
Do you look at them too? Not a breed you will know
Not the hardy Blackface of your time and keeping.
Are you coming or going? Disappearing there, at the corner
Is your wife here with you? Your children, two boys,
Wasn’t there a lassie? Giggling, skipping.
I hear them in the stones, laughing, fighting, crying.
A second or two of sighting and then it’s as if you never were.
Is that your wife calling? Or the laverock singing?
Are the boys squabbling over a stick? Or is it the hoodies?
Does the wind carry your name? It says so much, and all in a hurry.
Are you there, in the rush and riot, in the drifting snow?
In the wild thrash of branches, clinging, fighting to stay.
Do you pass in the mist as the sun rises, driving your cattle to water?
Is this you just back from the hags? Will the boys help turn and stack?
None to answer these questions, and how could there be.
So much unsaid, unrecorded. None left to remember, to tell.
But I see you, bent, not bowed, defiant not defeated
Even if I don’t understand, I’ll mention you as I go.
For I know you’ll be here when I am gone.
And who comes after will also need to share.
Alexander Hamilton, 2018
(Shooch – drain; Laverock—skylark)
