
In the tactile quiet, the whine
of the nervous system drowns
the black sea, north of Dunnet
Head. A caged sound wash
on this fluid canvas –
where aspic air dulls
all but the wings
of the shearwater
beating at the numbed
goustie – a feathered
thrum and unexpected
downdraft teases
a supranormal absence
of inspiration and sound
and heartbeat. Caithness
pauses… then breathes again.
*Dunnet Head sits in the Fair Isle Shipping Forecast Area and this poem is part of my Shipping Forecast project.
Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.
Recent Comments