It looks like
the surface
of the Moon, he said.
Later
after a bit of research
which is what I do
I would discover
that geologically
it was exactly
like the surface
of the Moon
The wind
on the Isle of Harris
was ferocious, wild, free
and sometimes cold
depending
on which side
of the island
you found yourself
Other than the howling wind
and the cries of sheep
and the occasional sound
of tires on asphalt
it was utterly silent
forgotten, somehow
It was a place
that slipped
in and out
of time
I was never quite sure
which century I was in
I just knew
I was stripped bare
to nothing
but a wispy
kind of essence
The parts
that make up
the whole of me
the broken parts
the shining parts
the dark parts
the good parts
merged together
into someone
I decided
I quite liked
a whole someone
Sheep spoke to me
in magical sheep language
A stray cat wove in and out
of my jean clad legs
My camera poised
for that next shot,
paused
I looked up
into laughing eyes
and remembered
how to smile
While ghosts
from long forgotten pasts
claimed me
as theirs
And in that moment
I became a daughter
of the islands
Anything is possible,
I thought,
on the surface of the Moon
Every breath
is a poem
Every vision
is a work of art
Every smile
is a sunrise
Every moment
is the start
of creation
I could never
quite remember
which century
I was in
I just knew
it was the start
or a continuation
of a forgotten poem
of a song
floating
on the current
A gull shrieked
gliding on the wind
while the waves crashed
and the sheep spoke
and the cat fell in love
and so did I.
robin~
13 July 2017
Sussex Coast, England
a lingering rose 