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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