Leaving Columba’s isle -
twenty pound for sense
of Hebridean muse –
across dark beguiling sea.
Uncertain safety, rising wave,
shade of coracle nearing
seals beneath columns
commanding Fingal’s Cave.
Wind, wave, grassy slopes,
ocean wash eroding
hollowed heart, sounding
music of danger, beauty, life
and loss. So first:
Climb, sit at the edge,
our boatman points:
Wait, the gulls will leave,
your presence will make way.
Rising, falling, watching
Puffins waiting, riding
swells, below island cliffs
where gulls hold sway.
Fluttering, lifting, becoming
as gentle rain, arriving
at our feet, claiming
rest above violent muse.
Between predator and prey,
surge and fall, sense peace
relaxing nature’s hold:
Rhythmic calm
at Staffa’s edge.
© John Fairbrother
January 2015
Image: Staffa, National Geographic
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