Poet Kenneth Steven writes on the remote islands of St Kilda, where the community is only a distant memory echoed in the sound of seabirds. This is an island far out in the ocean. 'To make the sea crossing to St Kilda a boat is heading into the full fury of the North Atlantic; west of here lies nothing more than Rockall - and then America.'

Once a thriving community lived on the island known as Hirta. 'Not only was there life on St Kilda, there was joy in life. The reports written by early visitors make that abundantly clear: the people made music and danced, they were singers of songs and tellers of tales. They faced hardship together and even death on a daily basis, but this little society held together in happiness.'

But by 1930 the British Government wanted an end to the expense of supporting this remote colony, and the community were forced to take the decision to evacuate. Now there are only the empty shells of houses and the endless cries of seabirds.

'In all the cobbles, concrete years to come Their islands promises to lie at the bottom of a glass, Or silent forever in their eyes, a story frozen Like a fly in the amber of time.'

Written and read by Kenneth Steven

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