Now, as I planned it, we reach the westerly shores
of Moidart, Arisaig and Morar.
Our squeaking walk on the singing sands,
it's another day to walk the strand on Rubha Da
Chuain, where every cap could be a seal flipping, another day
to look south for the lost wind which will open
the bay to gentler weather.
Another day to sip dark tea from the mussel's
flared rim, getting back to the origin of things.
Another day to finger poems for the tide
to read, and erase while the beach counts over and over.
Another day of saltwater without storm,
light shattering, glinting fragments.
Another day, it's all unfolding under the fucoid wrack quieting
the dark tidal wood.
Lochmaddy, North Uist, in the Western Isles, just for once
the big winds--
just for once, the big wings of the wind
are taking a rest, while we walk in the dark collecting
a different moon in each finger of lochan.
Constant in phases, the incremental moon
gets a good washing in the waves, rippling its broad beam,
tickling the waves, silvering the pixels of the Gaelic ocean.