Jim C. Wilson
Last Summer in the Hebrides
July; the sodden peat bogs suck me down
as stumbling, squelching, I cross this dark isle
of brown, of green. Fast Atlantic clouds frown
and loom ahead of me in threats, in guile.
Behind me loll the rusting caravans,
roped to the earth, tied down with ancient stones;
spearwort and orchid force their wild advance
to weave and bloom through an old bus’s bones.
The grocer’s van did not arrive today
and letters came late from the world. It might
be the strange warm wind that made Angus say
there’d be no fishing, as he watched the light.
On the beach terns scream and I turn to stare
at cattle standing rigid in the glare.
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