Inbhir Nis
I lay flat on highland bushes,
on the great chest that
carries around a heavy
purple heart, the beating stomp
of old heathens, those eager
in battle and tender in love.
I lay succumbing to
the mouth of the Ness,
letting its chuckle drag me
into the northern ocean
of the night, the secret follies
of one man and his bare breast.
Amongst the shrubs that
covered his chest, I found
the rowan trees standing
proudly, above the pulp of the
heart: true and fierce stems
of love grasping onto the earth.
They belittled the low heathers and
their abundant nectar by
departing from the dirt, raising
a bust, soft branches and
wild sorb: the mountain ash
defeated the peat.
The Wren on Iona
The shape of a person always
sailing through the chaos,
climbing onto the roof of the mouth
as a familiar, unuttered voice.
The wren nesting in the coils
of ropes hung up on the oar
As the light carves its geometries
on the walls of the morning.
Where one’s resting place is
slowly travelling on water, turning
a gleaming furrow through the
soil of rest, there, a state of grace.
Lead Image by Martin Bennie, via Unsplash