"flodigarry" poems
The wind is stretching her fingers
Kneading the waves
Into darker, worried scuffs
As the sun teases her
With silver treasures, always distant, elusive
Thrown onto the sea
Through cracks in a sky
Whose slate-grey mood
Could be mistaken for malice
As creel-boats see to their lies
Off Flodigarry, in Trotternish
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC