To Heather, m' wee bonnie lassie, died at the age of 9.

Heather's cascading rays of purple light
fills the vast unfathomable depths of night,
lush and rich as the lowlands' scene,
as lasting as the Highlands' evergreen.

Should I some Miltonian phrase recite,
or allow my hand my heart to write
a sonnet that would fill the air,
to express with eloquence words of care?
But in wisdom, I thought that I could not;
I thought again and then begot
the magnetism that invites the pen,
more powerful than intellect to defend,
thou, forever the poetry of my heart;
like Madonna's child, a world apart,
emotional intensity that brightly burned,
by fate subsided, now to a flicker turned.
Though dimly burns this light of thee,
from it shall darkest hours sunshine see,
nor the schemes of men could it destroy,
to be demoralised as a wanton toy,
cold, from this sullen dawn,
a senceless world of laughter torn,
its sombre greyness bears no compromise
to saddened smiles and tear filled eyes,
but close shall I embrace to my breast
the boundless joys, a treasure chest
of memories, each season now shall bring
re-kindled pleasures of remembering;
and serenely in each God given way,
recall the smiles of yesterday.
So, in springtime's glimmering glade,
where sunlight filters through the shade
and the wind, breathes softly with a sigh,
again I'll see the sparkle of your eye,
where from the virgin mountain scene,
who's snows purify the trickling stream,
that gives life to moss filled banks,
like your love,expressed in gentle thanks,
by hedgerow and yon furrowed field,
the song of spring begins to yield,
the flight of birds, the dance of flowers,
the warmth of rain, of sun filled showers,
spring to summer shall but fade, yet in disguise
with haunting melodies where song birds cry,
whence morning daises touched with dew,
by crisp clear skies of summer's blue
and lowland fields of marbled green
give peace, though God this way had been,
blessed here, moments of love that grows,
adorned with fragrance of the wild rose,
In clouds above, music of love's delight,
the choral symphony, the skylark's flight,
whose summer sounds that we hold dear,
will bridge the years that bring us near,
Alas! This magic must pass and transend,
to Autumn's wonder while summer ends
in a blaze of glory, with its flowers
that perfumed the long warm scented hours.
Now the leaves have turned again
and a little colder is the rain,
as if the splendour of summer to taint,
the woodland's scene with passion paint
their golden browns and yellow hues,
reflect the colours that still is you.