Down the Machair Path

Down the machair path
in mist so low
it touches the scrub willow

starlings arrange themselves
on a stave of wires
like the opening notes
of an accidental concerto

through the mist
a sudden flat disc sun
conjures a white rainbow
across the fallow

and ragged cattle
caught in the spotlight
don’t know they’re sitting
on a crock of gold.

Pauline Prior-Pitt
From Storm Biscuits (Spike Press, 2001)