ST

light changes everything— sand is muddy-puddled, worm-piled sludge or sun-kissed solid ground

waves like so many women they never give up

deep-cut valleys between buttresses of cliffs circle granite piers into the sea

and the terns, nothing more than a rusty door creaking open and shut as they tumble from the grey light, into the grey light

this bay with its mother’s circled arms of shore, one palm-width gap to open water

swollen like the raillery of a swain, copse of boats, clutter of estuary, dark beau, desolate sanctuary

night closing until only one line remains, a distant flicker across the Firth

the muezzin’s call rings around the bay, comes to me as the wind whisks the waves

an opus of fresh water, home to trout, rare birds, fauna, the wild Here time is held still