I Keen Fer Ye

They say the keening rises
where sea winds wear the stone,
a sound born out of sorrow
that no one makes alone.

It carries through the heather,
a cry both sharp and deep,
the echo of our mothers
whose kin they could not keep.

For grief is old in Scotland,
older than the tides,
and keeners learned its language
where every heartbreak hides.

They wailed for those who travelled
beyond the veil an’ loam,
their voices fierce with longing
to call a spirit home.

And so I stood in silence,
the hillside at my back,
the air as thin as winter,
my heart a swelling crack.

I keened for you, my dear one,
who loved me as your own,
a daughter in your keeping
though blood nor name were shown.

The cry climbed up my ribcage
and trembled in my throat,
a broken, ancient music
too wild to shape in note.

It tasted of the Highlands,
of peat and drifting rain,
of every nameless woman
who ever carried pain.

I keened because the living
must loose what they would hold,
and grief must have its story
else life will turn too cold.

I keened because you mattered
in ways the world can’t see,
and love that goes unspoken
still roots inside of me.

The moor did not grow silent
when finally I was through.
It whispered with the heather,
“I hear. I hold. I knew.”

And somewhere past the shadows,
where mortal feet fall still,
I hope my voice has found you
beyond the last grey hill.

For keening is a calling,
a thread between our days,
and I will walk it softly
with all a daughter’s praise.

By: Heather Patton / Verdant Butterfly

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© 2026 Heather Patton · The Verdant Butterfly
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