[I will write a poem about a place that I’ve been each week with music to match]
Neist Point on the Isle of Skye
Swirling batons of time
Erasing thoughts and hushing life and death
On a clear day you can see all the way to Iceland it’s said
In any case there to the north is Uist
Some puffins, squalls and lonely boats
swirling smoke and witchy breezes
snake around and between standing stones
Moss ridden ancient runes
Smashed to the ground by careless tourists
Who marked this place as sacred?
A ferryman, lighthouseman or a missionary?
Loneliness is an island cliff or peninsula dissapearing into the mist
Before time, before humans, before the rocks gave birth to the larvae that led to us
There was an island where nothing lived
And that island was Britain.