Forty

Because we can shape the land
We do shape the land
Because we can hear the helicopter
We do hear the helicopter
Because we can lose the top off of the pencil
We do lose the top off of the pencil

Because we can we do
Because I can I do
Because, can, do

Because I see the shimmer on the sea
I smile, I look again, I look again
Because I see the haze on the distant hill
I smile, I look again, I look again
Because I see the birds as they warble
I smile, I look again, I look again

Actually now I listen
I listen, I hear the birds
I listen, I hear the tractor
I listen, I hear the breeze
I listen, I hear the pencil on the paper

Actually now I write
I write, I watch the shadow
I write, I find a rhythm
I write, for no one in particular
I write, to say, that I too am not discarded

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Thirty Nine

Across Stromness harbour
Reading the Month of May
From George Mackay Brown’s
Calendar of Love

Watching the collection of seabirds
Move hither and thither
Splash, paddle - back and forth
Wash, preen - all around

At one with the seagulls
At one with the squawking
Most of all, best of all
At one with the sunshine, with the settled sea

Listen, listen closely
Listen to the voice
Reciting a poem to the ocean
Practiced, to quell the impending storm

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Thirty Eight

Out in the sun
Out in the post-modern midday air
Watch the coaches arrive
Watch the coaches depart

The parcel delivery man
Delivers the parcel
In the very same way
That all delivery men do

Yet, perhaps not in quite such a hurry
No, not wearing such a grimace
Nor demonstrating time’s pressure
In quite exactly the same way

Out in the sun
Out in the post-modern midday air
Watch the world pass by
Watch the time take time a little longer

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Thirty Seven

In the pilot’s house
At the pilot’s window
Clear waters
Long stretches of sea

Dust on the windowsills
Stuffed birds
Small tall ships
In antique glass cases

Ripples on the surface
Bask in the sunlight
A calmness today
Also on another day

Yet only two nights ago
A raging sea
A violent sea
Yet still nowhere near

The sea which topped the cliffs
The sea which bared the ground
The sea which rediscovered
A life which had been passed over

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Thirty Six

The sea devours four houses*

A cliff-top gale to you and me
A wee-breeze for the locals
A somewhat sideways view
Along the coastline to Hoy

Fearful for oneself
Fearful also for others
For the sea devours those with troubles
The cliffs provide launching pads for escape

Defeat in that suicidal moment
Unable to change ones mind
No longer to hear the songs of angels
No longer to cast eyes on universes beauty

Fearful, of what thoughts the rose might raise
Fearful, of pasts once thought well buried
For the mind devours those with troubles
The soul provides launching pads for escape


* George Mackay Brown - Scara Brae

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