The sea is rolling into your sandy shores and the Highlanders 

Are coming home.
Far away, in a place we can only remember with a lackluster
Inheritance of memory, our poetic origins sing
and stomp like madmen over the rivers,
Tributaries of blood so red it is black
thick with the culture of all these things
you seem to just
know.
The years and hours you have kneaded
Into your progeny, with patience
and masterwork affection
not unlike mommy dearest without the wire hangers,
yet when I stand at my ends against the obstacles
you prepared us for
I feel as though my spine is made from the roots
of your cliffs.
Not even the ocean
can bring me away from you.

It is a quiet thing, to fall,
and we have seen it first hand, haven’t we?
I feel as though you know
exactly what I mean.
It is the Highlander in us all
To care too much and try too hard.
From rocky places
of which I know far too much
being a child of genetics, you have been
something of great fortitude and resilience.
You lack nothing I would not want to become
as the only person who could lull another.
You bring all my storms
to bear in the solidity of your voice.
Always the voice,
Echoing forever
into my dreams and ever into my work, I cannot avoid
my Mother; protectorate, vigil
and unerring, but we know more than this
An assured wound in the grace of agony, something
Called pain, a mentor she knows
Intimately.