The God of the Islands

There is no place for you to hide
here is these scoured, sodden
lands, with the rain driving
over like hail, hard-hitting,
with the glowering clouds
and the unforgiving winds.

Are you in the bog heathers,
the Red River with its peat,
the clear green curved
waters with its crystal
pools and white frills, the
golden strands?

Or do I hear you in the voice
of the cuckoo calling
early in the morning?

The scattered churches like
gems amid the desultory
communities, (without their bells),
do not herald you with
stark no-nonsense white-

washed walls.  Only the
heaving sea knows its years -
millennia of skimming
over the white sands to
spread its skirts in beauty.

And I, a lonesome soul,
here so briefly, cannot
fathom my stolen breath
my tiny heart.  The
cuckoo calls amid such
stretching vastness, a
little bird near:  I am
not alone in the

cold morning with the
rain taking over all the
land with grey mist -
opaque cloak of sadness,
the wind's lament.  All
things playing their part.

One Year Round The Sun
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