The Maze, Tiree
It was the whiteness of the shell
the sweep of wet beach, the spread
of dark rocks holding it down.
It was the lean of the grass
the wrinkled sea, all the talk
about a change in the weather.
It was the forgotten plastic bag
the burnt out car, the stains
of oil and rust that lingered.
It was wild primroses on Kennavar
in morning sun, the way we live,
what we have done.
This poem featured on postcards and an installation produced as part of StAnza 2015’s An Archipelago of Poems installation
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