One of the men bent to clutch
stones to fire at the camera recording
the disorder of their leaving,
granting them no chance
in privacy of grief
to gather their belongings,
make their last peace with home.
And now over the decades,
a single, angry stone
wings from that direction
to crack the lens
allowing us to watch
again
women concealing faces
behind shawl or tweed
in their need
to conceal expressions,
MacQueen trying to outface it
with his defiant stare,
the pace of native feet
as they try to outrun history
the length of that island street.