GOING TO COLONSAY
It is too late to go to Colonsay
where the frail light falls softly on the sea,
the ferry boat can take you – but for me
it might as well be half the world away.
I can still see the island in my mind –
the yellow iris shining on the shore,
the broken clefs that curl from a fern floor,
the waves that spread their lace along the sand.
In June the darkness never quite comes down –
there in the north where the deer call at night
the Summer Isles lie in a long twilight
till the tide swings them back towards the dawn.
In here the nurses come to shake my bed
and bustle round the ward with supper trays,
they chatter of their summer holidays –
in France with Tom or Malaga with Ted.
But I – I long to see the gorse in bloom
beside the sea loch, there on Colonsay
and hear again that single piper play
tunes to take with me to a downstairs room.