To Sunnybrae cottage, we journeyed.
Back southwest, back eight decades
With the Solway firth, stretched out like a creased sheet waiting to be washed,
Then aired in a new, to me, telling of your stories.
I filled my pockets with fallen acorns and the rain pushed us on,
Passing place names like Creetown, Beeswing, Rockcliffe,
Pausing for brambles and breath at the mouth of the Penkiln.
We arrived at where it all began and where I will one day return
For you Grandma, the homecoming Queen of green, green Galloway