Daisies and cities

The daisies are up, and the wind
is around, the sea is empty
where the ferry will be, the
skies are a blue benison
on our last holiday day.

This place is all history and grass
and watching the rain fall
on Mull or Jura, the clouds
pass overhead, never stay.

I have dreamed dreams
of family and people, long gone,
in the comfy bed beneath
the gable.  I walked seven miles
the other day, I am more able.

Sunny yellow faces, waving
and smiling.  A man in an
orange jacket is photographing
a sheep: slick city Tiso,
fancy zoom, maybe he's 
never seen one (his citroen
is very clean).

I would like to stay but
there is no work here -
from history and grass
the people were cleared.
I have heard
more cuckoos in a single
week, than in my whole life.

Back to the city.  Return to strife.

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