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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