A boat across the Kyle's
clear water, then a road's
determined stone,
unchanged through years,
brown braes, no trees.
Shocked by the firing range,
in fear of cliff and sea,
how could I then have plunged
south from this point and east,
beyond the dangerous coast
where many headlands march,
arched above caves
in seeming playful reach?
As long a track – twelve miles
of rough-hewn danger
and close-up beauty:
deer, eagle, in a realm
I now saw perfectly –
as bridged those scarps and bluffs,
my no man's land
of war and emptiness,
before this tide's return,
where sparse life roofs the sea.
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