Poetry Map of Scotland poem no. 95: Gigha

On Creag Bhan

I clamber to the trigpoint and there you are
at the lookout plaque, pointing like an old seadog

not to the lashed waves, nor the grey line
of the Irish coast but with a boy's delight

to the double rainbow arching over
the flat of the island, which seems to reach

its pot of gold mid-air, each band of colour
in the first bow broad as a nursery stencil,

the second a slender arc pencilled over its twin.
The air is raindrift and spray, clouds purpling

where the sun flashes the edge, you could be standing
at the helm of a plunging ship, so little purchase

we have on this tumble of rock. I am aware
how wind slams from the west, knocking my stick

out of my hand, tugging the camera I've fished
from my stormproof jacket, see to my right

a few inches away a pool in the dip
between boulders, the wriggle of its surface

and the long green weeds attending their lives
deep down, out of the play of water and light.

 

A C Clarke
Previously published in Fras

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