Wind tearing across the cliffs,
Stevenson's lighthouse just is,
red above the black
slanting stacks, crashing
waves and seabirds.

Gulps of air on the coastal
walk, skin red from the
onslaught, but we were
lucky:  the sun glinting
on waves, making easier
our steps and hearts.

Teampull Mhor a dark
beauty with oil lamps:
I walked round the thick
walls in hope of benevolence.

Clach an Truiseil:  solid,
a warning, an invitation,
a flag:  we are here:
watch the rocks:  golden
sandy beach not far.

The sun makes me welcome,
warms my being, assailed
by grey and a
retrospective mein:  if
only I could be
who I am not:  happy:
contented with all I have
done and been.

In bags, mine, I bought
Harris Tweed in quarter
metres, and pottery I
don't need:  artefacts

of my time, taken
homeward, in memoriam
our walking day
when the sun came out
and we were happy
our steps perfect tracks.

One Year Round The Sun
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