I saw your motheryesterday,                    

at Celtic Connections.

Dried eyed and coping.

She graced the stage

with SheilaStewart  - that voice.

That exotic fruit youfed me.

You did this.

Re-rooted a nation

with funky cèilidhean,

cool fèisean.

Returnedhee-durrum-haw-durrum

to ceòl mòr.

Who but you would dare

liberate Michael Marrato harl a psalm

or soundscape SorleyMaclean.

The radical route youtrod

on eroded drove roads,laid

tracks for our exiledyouth

to follow you intotheir past.

Into muscularmodernity.

But you dusted thearchive of ancients

not wanting

to join them so soon.

The grit in your eye

as you stood by thetrig stone

defied your urgentfuture.

One score years andsome

was never enough.

It was all we wereoffered.

Now that waste isforgiven.

Tradition links arms

with beat box anddecks.

This fèis is your echo.

When the footstompindies,

and the piobaireachd stands alone,

we will pluck sadstones

from our breasts and

place them on yourcairn.