Muckle Flugga.

I’m stood on the end of the world
Watching the gannets wheel and turn about dark
And sinister rocks, huge slabs slipping
Into the turmoil of sea.
I strain to see the lighthouse keeper’s
Ghostly form, to hear the whales singing
Of elder days, sagas of the sea
And dreaming horses.
I balance here on the edge of reason
Conjuring dragons and ancient mist
Like some soothsayer casting the bones
Onto an endless shore.

The sun will soon be engulfed by waves
And the raven greet its maker,
The loon will call on the dark waters
Of the Loch of Cliff,
And the evening gulls return to roost:
Then I will turn my back on Out Stack
And embrace the peaty track once more
And tramp the wilderness way,
Remembering the sea mist
And the gliding sea-mews
That haunt the corners of my thoughts.