qarrtsiluni

A rook flies
over sand banks,
over us parked

by a sea of gorse.
Across the Holy Loch a church
is wedged between trees.

The hills behind are a downy haze
of birch, the mountains glazed
with snow. The sky

drips with clouds blown
beyond the reach of wing tips.
We drive deep into the neck of hills.

Ripples travel fast across
the loch, faster than the cormorant
swooping past the crannog.

Lost in the slopes and trees,
lost in the saltless loch,
you turn to me

and for a moment,
as in the puddle beneath
the gorse, I see

an image of me
in the water blossom
of your eyes.

by Marion McCready

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