Low voices from the lazy beds.
They are here for deadly things -
to tell me how doubt stains the hymn sheet,
dulls the bells in St Magnus Bay.
To leave equity by way of consolation,
a thin lament, “two drowned - two saved!”
Ships snap like balsa on the hills with no backs;
this land tests the strength of dreamers.
Disregard your hope now,
step into the wind;
feel how defeat rims your mouths with salt.
Once again, I dream of the West;
of lamps dimmed, hands raised in prayer.
Of empty beds and a summer bride,
her husband snagging on the Kame’s far side.
Dawn – Foula, blowing off her foggy cloaks;
reveals a queen - or a monster?
A one thousand-foot scream – of stone.
