Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 159: Old Man of Storr

A Week on Skye


The sodden birch

reminded me of zebras


and the midnight loch

was an upturned spoon


and the housefly buzzed

like a distant boat


and the wet granite glistened

like an open wound


and the white clouds were

stretched by the water


and the train screeched

like a dawn seagull


and dusk swimming

made pink flowers on the surface


and my son said the seaweed

was an underwater skull


and when we were blown to the summit,

slivers of silver in a sea of stone


all that this land had taught us

became unheard of, unbeknown.


Catherine Ayres

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