February 2025

The low February sun lit up the landscape. The familiar hills marched round the horizon, from Muirneag in the north, round to the Barvas Hills in the south and the humps near Dalbeg in the distance. The dark hues of winter dappled the moorland, and surrounded the unseeing eyes of the lochs. A little group was headed home along the road, enjoying the uncustomary spell of good weather.

The man of years checked his files, and saw that it was time. Closing the door behind him, he picked up his implements to do his work in the fields. That never ceases, not even in winter. Glancing over to the Dun, he worked his way up to the appointed place, to the appointed time.

The vehicle shimmered in the blinding light of the sun, for an immeasurably short space of time, less than the blink of an eye, it seemed to turn into a sickle, a scythe. The man of years bowed his head as the work was done.

Ten days later, the place was passed again. Perhaps some flowers had been laid by the roadside. Maybe they halted to acknowledge it. Rather than pass Dun Road to go home, the group now turned right into the street. Headed for one of two places from where to leave this island. This time, it was the cemetery gate.

RIP Jodie Lee Mitchell.