Hoy Triptych

flint-backed purple black
swelling dipping bottle
green depths sounding
loud with spittle
in our faces and the
roar of engines
vibrating our feet I
brace my back
against the wind
sheer to the sea

the place blank, untenanted
and no signs speak
of food, comfort, heat,
the wind in the grasses
sounds like a dozen cars
but the roads are empty
of all but the enquiring
tilted heads of sheep

the boat in the distance
tiny under a huge sky
riding against rude
grey seas too high - at
the prow, white froth,
aiming for dark
island rising, inhospitable
expels us to the
mainland towards
food and fire like a
hostile breath out
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