Island Home

I wish I could walk the track

back to my old island home.

Retreat to childhood haunts -

beech wood forests full of birds and briars

and the fantasy thrill of bears

living in the root rooms

made from fallen trees.

I'd wander from the village,

along the lane,beside the sea loch,

its greedy mouth

full of black rock teeth,

sucking sea and sea life

through its narrow gorge.

At the gate, the portal to day dreams,

I'd find my wellies in a bush,

and trudge down the track,

into the wood, past a bit that always smelled

of almonds. I never knew why.

Where the forest had not ventured,

a meadow, scattered with wild flowers,

and butterflies wove colours in the air,

and around the bend a small bridge

which gave way to the shore,

all mud and seaweed and seagulls

standing ankle deep,

their beady eyes, heartless.

And on the horizon were floating islands,

their unstable appearance

an optical illusion,

their names always alluring -

The Dutch Man's Cap, Eigg,

Canna, Muck and Rhum.

For a moment I am there.

(bird, unstable, bend, retreat, bridge, wild, rock, bear, lane, fallen, meadow, island)