For Seoras Coxon
Not over the blue algae on glistening stone!
A boy is running up the wide, salty steps
greening this grey world with laughter
and song—walking into schoolrooms,
he’s joking: all the joy and pain around.
Sharp as a stray nail on a ship
in the North Sea, nothing eludes him.
Here, where it all begins: out in the field,
among children playing, his bright head
glinting golden in the Hebridean sun. Days
and days are spent this way, in love and play.
A ferry arrives, takes him from home
to home. A voice on the phone intones
“Welcome back; welcome home, son.”
In our town, we miss him and so we sing—
A boy named Seoras is turning thirteen:
today he is the fastest, strongest and cleverest
in the world. When he comes, we sing
in low voices, of how quickly he ran down
all along the body of Alba like a river slithers
through and cuts the word in half,
down all the way to Edina, running
as it kisses the light.
From Lewis to New Town, everybody’s heard
the news: today, he is the biggest
in the world and has stopped running.
Thirteen years old, still and tall—
happy, happy, happiest of days
to you, good man. Now the angels sing for you.