Isle Of Bute Poem by peter rodenby

The mainland
string of sodium
shadow in misty rain
no more
a shallow tide
red rock
beach
a walk away
across an expensive stream.

A beautiful green isle
of sleepy dreams
and farms
narrow lanes
winding down to pebbled beaches,
the old town
a shabby port
Victorian pleasure palace
putting greens
sodden in the drizzle.

Across the gray water
from the upper deck
of the old ferry
I look back on Bute
old houses hug the coast
fadeout of sight
as the boat glides further
from the shore.