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.