If I could be whisked away warmly
from this spinning sack of sleep
I would rise through the hollow rain-wet night
past the soft-touching leaves of trees
and travel beyond this cosy land.
With arms stretched out through the cold
I would come to the dark salt sea
chopping remorselessly at the moon,
and finally to Iona of peace,
and the unnamed rocks about it.
And there I would find the cormorants, with
black bills hunched in a cloak of grey, watching
watching what? as they soak
with rain and briny spray, watching for
the tides which make and seek them.
First published in Tandem magazine, no.2