The headland:
a clod of dark earth
furrowed from the sea.
Clouds gather like the clans.
Wind slaps at my ears
to the rhythm of oars on water,
while seagull laments salt the air
with visions of a bonny prince.
Across quilted water,
Skye lies
as hazy and blurred as half-held beliefs.
I huddle in the lee of an abandoned croft,
the rain taking up the refrain
of lost causes;
shaving foam sheep endure
in a stubble of heather.
Water freckles the face of the ground
with Celtic abandon,
reflecting an ever-changing sky
in an unchanging land. |
Accepted by The Scots
Magazine 22.1.99 |
