'Is there nobody living here now? ', we said,
by Billy Wright
Slowly walking along the path,
Gannets and fulmars screeching overhead,
Above the pristine, windswept grass.
There's only a lonely radar station,
Crewed by a handful of hardy men,
Forty miles from civilisation they live,
Blasted by Atlantic wind and rain.
St. Kilda wasn't always like this,
Less than a hundred years have gone,
Since two hundred simple folk lived here,
Surviving on gannets and oil and corn.
They dried their crops in drystone cleits,
Over a thousand still stand to see,
Only those and a few old ruins are left,
Skeletons of a thriving community.
The National Trust look after the Isles,
A few hundred visit each year,
Wandering around this deserted place,
How many ghostly voices do they hear?
Rest in peace St. Kilda,
A relic of days of yore,
Times have changed, we all move on,
And this village exists no more.