Like a Shearwater on land, I struggle to my feet following a full moon’s path that leads me up from the beach, away from the stench of a rotting sheep’s carcass, towards a sand-coloured mansion absorbing moonlight like a beacon.

I imagine I can see the Maiden’s face blurred by mullion. She’s looking out and I feel her love and despair. I cry with her as her life, long ago, disintegrated; a disintegration that reflects my own.

A sea breeze, sudden and chill, shakes apples from an ageing bough. Windfalls thud to the ground where her feet once trod. The shadow of an abandoned scarecrow leans, creaking like the bones of a Jesuit priest hidden in a priest hole within that ancient building.

The scarecrow’s arm lifts as if pointing towards the distant road. ‘Run,’ I think I can hear his raspy voice say. 'Forget him.’

I ponder upon those two tragic lovers. Tom, a harpist of lowly trade, had no hope in gaining the hand of the daughter of Sker. Didn't he write a ballad declaring his love for The Maid of Sker, a song that is still sung when minds are clouded with beer?

What has my own love done to deserve such devotion? I muse upon that question and find no answers. What cruelty has he committed to persuade me that I must forge ahead without him? There are too many reasons. I don’t need to tick them off on cold fingers. I need to feel numb. I want to curl into a ball and burrow deep beneath purple heather.

Shall I shut myself away inside my own home that smells of his scent and disdain? Shall I gaze out like the Maid, each day and night, waiting for my love’s return?

‘Forget him,’ the scarecrow rasps, his arm still pointing towards that road hidden behind sand dunes.

I reach out, catch a gull’s feather spinning to earth. Or is it a feather shed from a guardian angel’s wing? Holding it to my nose, I feel its tickle. Smell the aroma of sea water.

The wind rises and the scarecrow creaks. I walk away, heading for the road and pray that I can return to the person I once was. Start all over again without him.