She gave me childhood’s flowers,
Heather and wild thyme,
Eyebright and tormentil,
Lichen’s mealy cup
Dry on wind-scored stone,
The corbies on the rock,
The rowan by the burn.

Sea-marvels a child beheld
Out in the fisherman’s boat,
Fringed pulsing violet
Medusa, sea-gooseberries,
Starfish on the sea floor,
Cowries and rainbow-shells
From pools on a rocky shore,

Gave me her memories,
But kept her last treasure:
‘When I was a lass,’ she said,
‘Sitting among the heather,
Suddenly I saw
That all the moor was alive!
I have told no-one before.’

That was my mother’s tale.
Seventy years had gone
Since she saw the living skein
Of which the world was woven,
And having seen, knew all;
Through long indifferent years
Treasuring the priceless pearl.