On the ferry, Skye experts had advised that
the Black Cuillin range was best viewed
from the windy road to Tarskavaig
but the low cloud and rain today
make it impossible to see their splendour.
There are only fields, which could be anywhere
except for the woolly lava flow of sheep,
which envelops our car and slows us
almost to a stop.
We trail behind the daggy rumps for miles
the meandering routes of individuals overridden
by the determined direction of our leaders,
invisible to us, but taking the road we’d planned.
The rest of us, flock and car, mindlessly following on
with one dog rounding up the distant stragglers,
as we merge into the bleating and the mist,
at the gentle pace of the island.
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