In the western isles clouds hug tops of mountains
A shaft of light shoots out from a grey midden
Roads snake between sheer rock and water
Like a corrugated sea under a lemon sky
A hard wind drives raindrops onto the windscreen
Rock faces wrapped in wire nets shimmer in the weak light,
Outline their shape, enclose their secrets.
Black Cuillins march up the spine of the island
Stirring ghostly voices speaking in strange tongues
Steel clashes on steel as clans turn on each other
A clutch of Saltires brave the wind straining to break free
When politicians are more interested in themselves
Their place in history, to see which cock craws the loodest!
Forgetting their oldest enemy might be their truest friend.
Tufts of coarse grass grow amongst the rocks,
That shift and change their shape, rub each other
Then pushed by the tide, roaring their disapproval.
Sheep take a break from cud-chewing, to eye strangers
Who dare to invade their pastures; as the light fades
And clouds reclaim their mountains, the wind howls
To murmurs of approval from restless waves.