On Skye Poem by pete Hall

White-washed Protestant crofts
Leak heat. It leaches from chimneys
By the flat stream, a dipper 
Busy amongst cobbles
Hears country gossip
Long exchanges at cross-ways path
Wise water-wren of Skye

Up leads the old cow-road
Now mossy and sheep full. A hoove-worn path
Milks its way amongst homesteads
Small white dogs, sniffing at lost impressions
Footsteps. Walk up top, basalt tops

Lava fat ledges push vertical falls
Over lofted places. The west wails spoil
Eagles preening on turret tops
Windy battlements will fail to challenge
But, hold transfixed, the lives
Of all
Shepherd, ewe and stranger

Rain drops, staves of water
The mellow roof of old land. Full bosomed and rich
Dip slopes of red-brown patchiness
Home of corn fed grouse

Watch windows of geese
Skein hard against the wind
Seals slump and slow.Sink deep
Dark and bubble, lie low in the loch
Raven-dances, high in the air
Twisting a wing
To drop onto rubble squares
The old poverty hangs heavy here
Here on Skye