The Wind as it Blew

the wind as it blew was an ill wind
the near hills no longer gentle
rode hard against the sky

the sea as it ran in cross-currents
was a rip-tide off Bhatasgeir
drowning those who stayed

‘Ah, Dhòmhnaill, when will another son of yours be lost
parted from Aird Thunga and the flat rocks above the shore?’

If I…

If I am a poet…
and my thoughts pour out in slick black rivers to stain the page,
to ink it with dull-edged bleeding letters and fade
like exhausted breath in air…