Walk on a rainbow trail, walk on a trail of song 

And all about you will be beauty.

There is a way out of every dark mist 

Over a rainbow trail. 

- Navajo Poem

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My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

- William Wordsworth 1770-1850

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Extract from A Highland Parish by Norman Macleod 1812-72

The Highland churchyard is a spot which seldom betrays any other traces of human art or care than those simple headstones which mark its green graves. In very few instances is it enclosed; its graves generally mingle with the mountain pasture and blooming heather, and afford shelter to the sheep and lamb from the blast of winter and the heat of summer.

But although not consecrated by holy prayer and religious ceremony, these are nevertheless holy spots in the hearts and minds of the peasantry, who never pass them without a subdued look, which betokens a feeling of respect for the silent sleepers. To deck a father or mother's grave would be, in the estimate of the Highlander, to turn it into a flower-garden. He thinks it utter vanity to attempt to express his grief or respect for the departed by any ornament beyond the tombstone, whose inscription is seldom more than a statistical table of birth and death.

Many of those Highland churchyards, so solitary and so far removed from the busy haunts of men, are nevertheless singularly touching and beautiful.

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Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-94

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The dead ends in life force us to turn round and find another way to our destination. Who knows what treasures we will discover along the way. Detours are an opportunity to reshape our lives. Embrace them! - Tom Hackett

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