After

The wolf cries under the leaves, the woodsman cuts through the trees
—Rimbaud

My father spoke of stories like whiskey
he could hold in a clear glass, drink down
and see for miles the meaning of a man. 

But up there where he died,
on the edge of the Western Isles
it takes more than a single malt.

The crofts are like tombs
and the children kill cats in the crumbling barns,
buzzards strike out the sun

and the winters bring hunger
like lidless beggars to the stones.
I see him in his shapeless sweater,

searching the horizon, nothing doing
and a child burning brightly
in the shadow of his death.

None will attend him but the priest
and his mild hands anointing with oil.
After, they will bring flowers through the snow,

small bells will sound in the night
and wood will burn brightly.
All through the land the wolves will run on

casting his name to the trees.