The Hermit Of St Kilda

A sturgeon in a muddy bath
Atop one wayward cleit-bound path,

A bunion-coloured troubled moon,
Swallowed by his bleak lagoon;

Bothy ghosts with bridal sedge,
Perilous steeper western edge.

He floated on a flotsam-skiff
Disembarked, in gloaming mist,

Footsteps in her foaming surf
Winds were purging sands and turf;

He knelt, and kneeling blessed,
Wilder elements would contest,

Existence, akin to snow still falling
Intrinsically, all thoughts appalling.

An aching storm then passing through
Shook the eyes in that lagoon,

Lugubrious eyes, ugly too,
All the things he never knew.

Dead-way eyes, and deadly too,
For all who looked within the gloom;

Rising above, more than self,
Prayed upon a skerry shelf,

While sturgeon, eel and salmon fled
Back to where the city bled.

Slowly The Silenced Soil Awakes

Slowly the silenced soil awakes
In great uncoilings of morning;
With heated blades their gas escapes,
Funneled from a foreign space,
A foamy, loamy environ
Beneath this heathy earth
Where truths are boiling in cauldrons
And with sediment recoiling.
Up here, for now at least,
Cold air, hoar frost,
Joggers puffing underneath
Skies as thin and grey
As dreams in a mute swan’s fleece;
Dog-walkers convene
With latent conversation,
Still wearing knitted hats,
Last year’s scarves
And woollen gloves,
Their feet patting paths
Like rain-charming starlings –
Only, the worms that emerge
Are solemn words reverberating
From our lost and lonely interred,
Their vapour trails rising
As blinding reminders;
The weeds and moss
As speechless as froths
Of periwinkle –
Embosser of Murderous Time –
And snowdrops huddled
Within a darkening corner,
Nervous, fragile ambassadors
Held fast to those Masts of Time;
Spring’s contract is unfettered
And these vernal lows are bettered;
The Goddess of Dawn stretches
Indolently, and is yawning
Before her audience
Begin their eternal dance.