Barbara Mitchell


Whale...South Uist.

A trinity of vertebrae on a carpet of stone,
a cathedral of sea-worship built of bone.
Scoured clean of flesh that once powered you across oceons
following moon-paths, pulled by stars.
Out beyond the edge sounds an echo of your mighty voice
bugling your need to distant kin,
troubador, wandering minstrel...I hear you sing.
This is where your pilgrim years have brought you,
South Uist the table for your bones.

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