The Isle Of Skye

The Isle Of Skye

Broken pancakes of islands on a sparkling, sunlight sea

Cradling a little white church, the winding road rides

from Mallagh to Skye,

Light headed from excitement and salt air,

We set sail for Black Pudding Island

Skye, a Renoir painting of orange skies, purple land, virulent yellow and pink sheep

A hidden beach, 2 men kayaking, one goes bottom up

I sit on a broken stone wall, hair blowing in the wind

Tummies tucked in, I feel glamorous

The lens discovers two purple penguins flapping

The zoom finds twins in identical jackets

Brown haired babies, picking pebbles on a stony white beach.

Anne’s blue Clock Glass House, nestled in a cliff

With the softest feathered beds in the world

Hot scones for tea with 20 kinds of home-made jam

4 girls baying at a red moon at the witching hour

Fresh lobsters at The Schoolyard, with a bit of melting butter and parsley,

And then our journey to the end of the world..

Where the cliff broke into ridges and the ridges leaped into the Pacific

And we leant against ancient rocks, bathing in the pink of a setting sun

I hummed a tune and wrote a picture postcard to my “bluest self”,

Explaining to her why it was all worth it , this business of living .