Looking west, over the brave waves, he took his voice, and stretched
Out a song in a language as close as possible
To the sea, to mingle with the shingle
Being shunted up along the beach, to explore
round stones, bleached bones, seaweed, fishbreed, egg of flesh and fowl,
Flotsam and jetsam scattered off ships, carried from distant
Places to indifferent spaces; to express
Love of this unplace. The gulls scream, wheeling,
Flocks of oystercatchers, an old movie look, flicker white to black,
Plovers together turn and catch a glint off the winking
Cusp of sun. Opulent tones of ochres purple the open hills.
raped and haunted by losses. Glad to see them off, the wind remembers
People, trees, language to him more beautiful than tracery.
Words that held in the tone and tongue-tip the fierce red mosses,
Waterlogged, that don’t hold still long enough for simile. The fierce red
Fox, the ptarmigan, moving, changing colour, hidden.
Looking in the mirror of these words he sees a new
Reflected self, the old words dying with his out breath. The unforgiving
Barrenness of rock draws him like a lodestone to long for an undoing,
Reflesh the old words, end up there, bleached on the wind scattered sand,
There to resound.